Porter: No, of course not. It’s something very cruel, and I hate to make you unhappy, but you must know, you must! All those years—three and more while Papa was away from you—they had put him in prison.
Margaret (horrified): In prison!
Porter: Yes, dear. There were people who accused Papa of taking some money that didn’t belong to him—money from a bank. But listen, Margaret, dear, you’ll never doubt what Papa tells you—
Margaret (wide-eyed): Why, of course not, Papa!
Porter: I want you to know that Papa never got that money. Other people got it and they blamed it on him. They ran the bank carelessly, and Papa was never a good hand to take care of money, you know. And Mamma was ill, we had many dreadful troubles. When they accused Papa—oh, it was cruel, with things about it in the newspapers, and Papa had to go into court, and be charged with it, and have to tell things about other people that he couldn’t bear to tell. I ought to have gone, Margaret, dear, I ought to have faced it out and told everything. But I always hated money so, and money matters—I was on my way to the trial, and I fell into a sort of panic, I just couldn’t face it, I went to New Orleans and took a steamer to Central America. You remember the first time Papa was away, for half a year—you were young then—
Margaret: I remember it, Papa. Mamma and I packed up your overcoat, and some good things to eat, and sent them to you.
Porter: I had been traveling all over Central America and South America and Mexico. First I thought I could get some sort of little home there, and have you and Mamma come; but I couldn’t earn a living there, and I was so unhappy. Then I learned that Mamma was worse—at the very time she packed that overcoat she was hardly able to move. So I got desperate, I didn’t care what happened to me, I came back, and Mamma died in my arms. And then I gave myself up, I let them take me and try me in court. I sat and hardly knew what was happening to me; I didn’t say a word that I might have said in my own defense. My heart was breaking, dear, but I couldn’t let you know it—I had to pretend to be happy, and make jokes, and tell you I’d be back soon—(he sobs, and the child with him) I had to tell grandma and grandpa to hide from you where I was, and wait until I came out. I wanted to tell you with my own lips, so you would know Papa was innocent—
Margaret: Of course, Papa! Of course!
Porter: Oh, sweetheart, I can never tell you about that place, and what I suffered there. Only one thing kept me alive—the thought that some day I’d be with you again. All the time I was in the prison I used to write stories—I was the night drug-clerk, I slept in the day-time and was on duty at night, and I’d spend long hours writing stories. Some of them were published—and do you know what I spent the money for? To send presents to you! That lovely dolly—I spent hours thinking about that dolly, and how happy it would make you. I used to sit at my desk and imagine you with that dolly, all the sweet things you’d say to it—
Margaret (gazing enraptured at the doll): Oh, such a sweet dolly! Oh, Papa—did you know, when you lay her down she shuts her eyes, and that makes it easy to play she’s asleep! And when you squeeze her she says “Mamma!” Do you suppose I could teach her to say “Papa”?