“Yes, father, I understand, and I will go,” Everard said, rising slowly, as if it were painful to move; then, half staggering to the door, he stopped a moment and added, “I deserve a great deal, father, but not all you have given me. You have been too hard with me, and you will be sorry for it some day. Good-by; I am going.” “Go, then, and never come back,” came like a savage growl from the infuriated man, and those were the last words which, ever passed between the father and the son. “Good-by, father, I am going.” “Go, then, and never come back.” They sounded through the stillness of the night, and Everard shivered, as he went through the long, dark hall and up the stairs, where the old clock was striking one, and where the light from Rossie’s door again shone into the gloom, and Rossie’s face looked out, pale and scared this time, for she had heard the judge’s angry voice, and knew a dreadful battle was in progress. So she wrapped a shawl about her and waited till it was over, and she heard Everard coming up the stairs. Then she went to him, for something told the motherly child that he was in need of comfort and sympathy, and such crumbs as she could give she would. But she was not prepared for the cowed, humiliated look of utter hopelessness, and not knowing what she was doing, she drew him into her room, and making him sit down, she took his icy hands and rubbed and chafed them, while she said, “What is it, Mr. Everard? Tell me all about it. I heard your father’s voice so loud and angry that it frightened me, and I sat up to wait for you and tell you how sorry I am. What is it?” Her sympathy was very sweet to Everard, and touched him so closely that for a moment he was unable to speak; then he said: “I cannot tell you, Rossie, what it is; only that it is something which dates far back, before mother died, and father has just found it out, and has turned me from his door.” “Oh, Mr. Everard, you must have misunderstood him; he did not mean that. You are mistaken,” Rossie cried, in great distress; and Everard replied: “When a man calls his son a sneak, a coward, a clod, a villain, a scoundrel, a scamp, a hypocrite, a liar, there can be no misunderstanding the language, or what it means; and father called me all these names, and more, and said things I never can forget. I deserve a great deal, but not all this. Oh, if I had died years and years ago!” His chin quivered and his voice trembled as he talked, while Rossie’s tears flowed like rain as she stood, not holding his hands now, but gently stroking the hair of the head bowed down so low with its load of grief and shame. “Mr. Everard,” she said at last, “has this trouble anything to do with Joe Fleming?” “Yes, everything!” Everard answered, bitterly; and Rossie continued: “Oh, I am so sorry! I hoped you had broken with him forever. You have been so good and nice, and kept that pledge so beautifully! How could you have anything to do with Joe?”