It was getting toward dusk when Mrs. Whitney stole softly into Kathleen's bedroom and stood looking down at her as she lay, eyes closed, white face pillowed on one shapely arm, her breath hardly stirring the laces on her gown. Convinced that she was asleep, she moved cautiously away, hoping not to disturb her, but at that moment Kathleen opened her eyes and raised herself on her elbow. "Don't go, dear," she begged. "How is Dad?" "Just about the same." Mrs. Whitney carried a chair to the bedside. "It is too bad to have roused you." "I wasn't asleep--only thinking"--drearily--"I am glad you came in. Does Dr. McLane hold out any hope?" "Yes," and Mrs. Whitney's care-worn face brightened. "Is it not good news?" "The very best," Kathleen smiled through her tears. "You must be worn out," and she stroked the hand on the bed with loving fingers. "You should take some rest." "I am not tired," protested Mrs. Whitney. "The nurse has just come in from her afternoon constitutional, and I felt that I could leave Winslow for a little time. Tell me, dear," sinking her voice. "Can you let me have a hundred dollars?" "I would gladly, mother, but I don't believe I have half that amount left. You are welcome to that, though; my purse is in my desk." "Thank you, dear, I'll get it later," but the troubled shadow did not lift from Mrs. Whitney's pretty face. "Both Vincent and Henry have asked me for their wages; I have given Henry part ..." "Give him the whole, only get rid of him," burst out Kathleen. "I cannot bear the man." "Why, Kathleen! Has he been disrespectful?" "N-no, only--I don't trust him." "Please, dear, don't excite yourself." Mrs. Whitney noticed with alarm the hectic flush that dyed Kathleen's white cheeks. "I will fill his place. Come to think of it, I did not like his manner this morning when he asked for his wages, and he went out without leave ..." "He selected a curious time to make his request, with Dad so ill." "Well, you see, my dear," coloring faintly. "I gathered your father has not paid him recently." "Don't believe that story until you have asked Dad." Kathleen choked back a sob, remembering that her father, her dear father, might never answer another question, no matter how trivial. "Don't look so worried, mother; Dad will get better shortly." "I pray so." Mrs. Whitney's eyelashes were wet with tears. "Kathleen, did your father ever speak to you of a note for twenty thousand dollars?" "No, never." "It comes due next week." Mrs. Whitney looked hopelessly about the room. "Surely the bank will hold over the matter until Dad is in a condition to attend to his affairs?" "I sent word to that effect when answering the note teller's letter." "Who is the holder of the note?"