“I tell you it dates far back,—a hundred years ago, it seems to me. I got into an awful scrape, from which I cannot extricate myself,” Everard said, and Rossie continued: “I see, you did something which Joe knows about, and so has you in his power, and you have just told your father.” “Yes, that is it, very nearly,” Everard replied. “I wish you’d tell me what it is. I ’most know I could help you; at all events, I could speak to your father; he is always kind to me, and will listen to reason, I think,” Rossie said; and then Everard looked up quickly, and spoke decidedly: “Rossie, you must not speak to father for me. I will not have it. He has taunted me enough with ‘hanging on to the apron-strings of a little girl;’ that’s what he said, referring to my having taken money from you; for you see I told him everything, even to the hair you sold, and I think that made him more furious than all the rest. It was a dastardly thing in me, and there must be no repetition. You must not interfere by so much as a word; remember that when I am gone, for I am going to Cincinnati first, and if I find nothing to do there, I shall go on to Louisville, and possibly farther South. I shall write to you as soon as I know what I am going to do,—perhaps before; and, Rossie, among all the pleasant memories of my old home, the very sweetest will be the memory of the little girl who always in my sorest need lightened, if she could not remove, the burden. Hush, Rossie; don’t cry so for me. I am not worth it,” he said, as she burst into a passionate fit of weeping. He had risen now and was bending over her and holding her hands in his, and when he saw her sobbing thus he wound his arm around her, and drawing her close to him, tried to quiet and comfort her. “Don’t, Rossie, don’t; you unman me entirely, to see you give way so; I’d rather remember you as the brave little woman who always controlled herself.” Down over Rossie’s shoulders her unbound hair was falling, and lifting up one of the wavy tresses, Everard continued, “I shall be gone in the morning, Rossie, and I want to take with me a lock of this hair. It will be a constant reminder of the sacrifice you once made for me, and keep me from temptation. May I have it, Rossie?” She would have given him her head had he asked for it, and the lock was soon severed from the rest and laid in his hand. Holding it to the light he said, “Look how long, and bright, and even it is. You have beautiful hair, Rossie.” He meant to divert her mind, but her heart was very sore, and her face tear-stained and wet as she tied the hair with a bit of ribbon, and placing it in a paper, handed it to him. “Thank you, Rossie,” he said; “no man ever had a dearer sister than I, and if I am ever anything, it will be wholly owing to your influence and Bee’s.” At the mention of Bee’s name Rossie looked quickly up, struck with a sudden idea.