“I thought of that, miss, and I know Tom suspected me, too, for he dogged me all the time; and then, I’d been entangled in so many other things, I should probably have got deeper into the mire. We reasoned that they would be easy with the young chap—he’d only have a short sentence—when, if they’d caught us, we’d have had ten or fifteen years for being old hands at the business.” “It was a wicked, cruel thing to do, to let an innocent man suffer as he suffered!” Editha exclaimed, forgetting for a moment, in her indignation, that she was speaking to a dying man. “I know it—I see it now, miss, and I’ve been afraid to die with that on my mind; perhaps, if I confess the whole, I shall feel easier. I’ll tell you the whole story, if you like,” he returned, humbly. “Yes, do,” she cried, eagerly. “It can do no harm to confess it now, and will be an act of justice to the innocent—it will clear Mr. Wayne from the disgrace that otherwise must always rest upon him.” “Wayne! Yes, that was his name. What was the other? It was a sort of high-sounding one, if I remember right,” he asked. “Earle Wayne was the name,” Editha replied, with a rising flush as she pronounced it. Whether it was “high-sounding” or not, it was the dearest name in all the world to her, and she could not speak it without a thrill. “He was a particular friend o’ yours, wan’t he?” he inquired, with, a quick, searching look into the glowing face. “Yes; but I’m ready to hear your story now.” She did not deem it at all necessary to enter into the particulars of her relationship with Earle for his benefit. “Well, as you say, it can do no harm to confess it now, and Tom Drake can’t hurt me, either—nobody will dare touch a dying man, though he did swear he’d kill me if I ever lisped a word of it. I know he meant what he said; and, miss, though I’ve been _driven_ to stealing for a living, yet I’ve always _loved_ my wife and child.” He paused abruptly and glanced at those two faithful ones—the _only_ ones in all the world who cared that he was dying, and who would miss him when he was dead. “It’s been torture to me lately,” he went on, with emotion, “to see them going cold and hungry, taking the bread from their own mouths to keep life a little longer in my worthless body; but, miss, folks that are down in the world and driven into a corner can _love_ just as strong as those who never knew a want.” “Indeed, I do not doubt it,” Editha said, feeling a deep pity for him, notwithstanding he had so deeply injured one whom _she_ so fondly loved. “I know it is but adding insult to injury; but, miss, if you—if I could only be assured they need not want for bread when I am gone, it would be a great comfort,” he added, with a wistfulness that brought the tears to her eyes. “They shall not—I promise you that I will see that they do not suffer,” she said, heartily. “I do not deserve it from you, Miss Dalton, after using _him_ so,” she said.