“Because—well, I have not perhaps urged the matter sufficiently,” he said. “You say you did this man a service,” said Gerald. “Yes. I think the time has come when I should tell you what that service is. Let me say in the outset that I saved his reputation at the expense of my own. It was, I am afraid, a mistake, for it ruined my life. But I was strongly tempted!” He paused. Gerald listened with painful interest. “You never told me much of your early life, father,” he said. “You have wondered, no doubt, why I left civilization and buried myself-and you-in this out-of-the-way place?” “Yes, father, I have wondered, but I did not like to ask you.” “It is the fault of one man.” “The man whom you expect to befriend me, father?” “Yes.” “I don’t think I should like to be indebted to such a man,” said Gerald, and a stern expression settled on his young face. “I should not wish to accept any favors at his hands.” “Nor would you. It would not be a favor, but the payment of a sacred debt. It would be reparation for a great wrong.” “But, father, the reparation ought to have been made to you, not to me.” “You are right, Gerald, but it is too late now.” “Why did you not take steps before to have this wrong righted?” “Because the world has misjudged me, and might misjudge me yet. This man should have needed no prompting. He should have saved me all trouble, and when he saw my life ruined, and my health shattered, he ought to have done what he could to pay me for the great service I did for him. I am afraid I was weak to yield to the temptation to help him in the first place.” “Don’t say that, father,” put in Gerald. “Yes, I will not try to disguise the truth from you,” went on the old man. “I was too pliant in this man’s hands. To be sure I committed no crime, but then I allowed a false impression about myself to get abroad, and I sometimes think that—that all that has happened since has been my punishment.” “No, no, that cannot be true, father,” broke in the son. “I am sure all the fault was on the other side. But have you never seen the man since?” “No, Gerald.” There was silence in the little cabin for a brief while then. The boy was desirous to hear more, but the father seemed absorbed in meditation. “Father,” finally said Gerald. “Yes, my son,” rejoined the sick man, turning his gaze back to the boy by his side. “Do you think the person of whom you speak is likely to befriend me?” “I do not know. He has behaved so ungenerously about the whole matter. That is what makes me anxious.” “Will you tell me the name of this man, father?” “His name is Bradley Wentworth, and he lives in the town of Seneca, Illinois, where he has large investments, and is a prominent man.” “Do you mind telling me how he injured you, father?”