"John Barclay," cried the mother sternly, as she leaned toward him, "the faith that bore your father a martyr to the grave, sustained me in this wilderness, and kept me happy as I scrubbed for your bread, shall not be scoffed in my presence. We are going to have this thing out to-night. I, who bore you, and nursed you, and fed you, and staked my soul on your soul, have some rights to-night. Here you are, fifty-four years old, and what have you done? You've killed your friend and your friend's father before him--I know that, John. You've wrecked the life of the sister of your first sweetheart, and put fear and disgrace in her father's face forever--forever, John Barclay, as long as he lives. I know that too; I haven't been wrapped in pink cotton all these years, boy--I've lived my own life since you left my wing, and made my own way too, as far as that goes. And now you are trying to quench the fires of remorse in your soul because your wife died a victim of your selfish, ruthless, practical scheme of things. More than that, my son--more than that, your child is suffering all the agony that a woman can suffer because of your devilish system of traffic in blood for money. You know what I mean, John. That boy told the truth, as you admit, and he could either run or lie, and for being a man you have broken up a God-sent love merely to satisfy your own vanity. Oh, John--John," she cried passionately, "my poor, blind, foolish boy--haven't you found the ashes in the core of your faith yet--aren't you ready to quit?" He began, "Don't you think, mother, I have suffered--"