"We are all sinners, Mrs. Whippleton; and we are all great sinners." "Well, I ain't any worse'n the rest on 'em. But I don't want to talk about them things now. I've got somethin' else on my mind. I've got thirty thousand dollars--" "But I would not think of that now." "I must think on't. It worries me. I know you are an honest young man, Philip; and I can't say that I know of another one in the whole world." "That's a harsh judgment; but if I am honest, it is because I believe in God and try to do his will." "I suppose you are right, Philip. I wish I was better than I am; but as I ain't, 'tain't no use to cry about it. I didn't send for you to preach to me, though I hain't no kind o' doubt I need it as bad as any on 'em. Ever since I fust see you in the steam car I believed you was honest, and meant to do just about what's right. Set up a little closer to me, for I don't want to tell the world what I'm goin' to say to you. I believe I can trust you, Philip." "I always try to do what is right, and I have no doubt I succeed better than those that don't try at all," I replied, finding that it was useless to attempt to talk to her of anything except money and business; though I hoped, when these important topics were disposed of, that she would be reasonable on matters of more consequence. Certainly her appearance was very much altered, and she spoke of dying. Young as I was, I had already been in the presence of death, and I thought that matters of the soul's concern ought to be attended to before anything else. "You knew that my son Charles has been here to-night?" continued Mrs. Whippleton. "No, I have not seen him." "He was; and he has been here every night for a week, pestering me almost to death, when I'm sick. He's fretting what little life there is left to me out of my body." "Why, what's the matter with him?" "He wants money--all I've got in the world, if I'll give it to him. He says he shall be ruined if he can't get it." "Indeed!" "I don't know nothin' about it, but he says something's wrong in the firm. He wants forty thousand dollars, and must have it, or be ruined and disgraced. Don't you tell a soul what I'm saying to you, Philip." A flood of light was suddenly cast in upon my perplexed understanding. Forty thousand dollars! That was about the amount of the mysterious invoices. After this revelation I had no difficulty in believing that Mr. Whippleton had been using the money of the firm in his private land speculations. The invoices were fictitious, and this explanation showed me why the junior partner did not wish me to mention them to any one. I even thought I comprehended the nature of Mr. Whippleton's sudden illness when I showed him my trial balance. Now he was trying to get the money from his mother to make good his accounts with the firm.