"My father is employed in--in the house that we went to," she resumed at last; "the house where Charlie has been playing. He deals the cards--or something. He must have known!" Two tears fell into her lap. "To think that my father has fallen to that!--has fallen so low! And when Charlie said that to him," she cried desperately, "it almost b--broke my heart." Her voice shook and suddenly she bowed her head upon her arms, which were resting on the table, and broke into a passion of tears; wild weeping, such as Fox had never known--had never supposed could come from her. She had always seemed so beautifully poised, so steady and so sturdy; like a rock, on which others built their foundations. But the rod had smitten her and the springs were unbound. He had a wild desire to take her in his arms. But he didn't--then. He only murmured something meant to be comforting. God knew he wanted to comfort her; wanted to as he had never wanted anything in his life before. He would, if he only knew how. But the wild weeping had given way to a subdued sobbing. "And--it--it alm--most b--broke my heart," she sobbed, "to re--refuse what he asked. B--but I had to do it. I h--had to do it, Fox. I c--couldn't do anything else." She caught her breath. She could not go on for a minute. Only an inarticulate murmur came from Fox. "Father was such a pathetic figure!" Sally went on a soon as she could speak. "Of course I know that he is not always so--that he is seldom so. There were mother and Charlie to think of. But it seemed so terrible! And he was so patient under Charlie's--treatment--his own father! I can't get him out of my--" Her wild weeping, restrained for a moment, broke out again. "Sally!" Fox murmured, leaning forward and laying a hand upon her knee. "Sally, dear!" There was a great distress and a great longing in his look, but Sally had her head down and she did not see it. But it was in his voice and she may have heard it. He rose impulsively from his chair and went to her quickly--it was only a step--and he sat on the arm of her chair and put his arm around her. "Sally, dear!" he implored. "Don't cry so! Please don't." She did not repulse him, as he had feared she would, gently, of course, but firmly; but she did not yield either. It was as if, for the moment, he was nothing to her--nothing more than a brother; not _her_ brother, thank heaven! She only sobbed, there, for some minutes--in his arms. That was enough. She became more quiet in time. She still had her head down upon one arm, but she was feeling up her sleeve and under her belt, searching for something. "Forgive me, F--Fox," she said, "I didn't mean to do it, but I'm t--tired out and--and I can't find my handkerchief." She laughed a little hysterically. "Have you got one to l--lend me, Fox? I c--can't lift my head be--because I'm crying and I've cried all over your table and into your chair--" "Drat the table! What do you suppose I care about it, Sally?"