"Frank! Frank! Don't go. I can forgive anything, everything, but your slight to me."
"My slight to you, dearest?"
He led her gently toward a sofa near the window, and seated himself by her side.
"It's weeks since I have seen you, Frank. In your trouble could you not trust me?"
"Can you trust me, little girl?" he cried, clasping both her hands within his own.
"Can you trust me, when I tell you that I did not rob the Webster Bank, that I am not guilty of the terrible crime with which the newspapers have had me charged?"
"Frank, I can trust you in anything; but only think! It is three weeks since you left me in this very room—left me to seek my father and ask his consent to our marriage. I have not seen you since."
"Dearest. I could not help it. I saw your father. He refused my request. I—I—that is—I have been so situated that I could neither see nor communicate with you since."
The cheeks of the youth blushed red as he spoke.
The memory of his dissipation and folly in the presence of this innocent girl seemed to crowd upon him with crushing force.