"It is hard to do anything for them. One can help the Talmans; but it is almost impossible to help the decayed gentlefolk. One has to be so careful not to appear to know her pathetic little deceits, and I find myself bowing and accepting all her little devices and transparent deceptions of how comfortable they are, when I know that maybe she may be faint with hunger at that very time." I wondered if she knew their story. But she suddenly said: "Tell me about their case. I do trust you can win it." I was only too ready to tell her anything. So, as we walked along I told her all I knew or nearly all. "Oh! you must win it! To think that such robbery can be committed! There must be some redress! Who were the wretches who robbed them? They ought to be shown up if they were in their graves! I hate to know things and not know the person who committed them." As she turned to me with flashing eyes, I felt a great desire to tell her but how could I do so? "Tell me. Do you know them?" "Yes--some of them." "Well, tell me their names." "Why do you wish to know?" I hesitated. "Because I do. Isn't that sufficient?" I wanted to say yes, but still I hesitated. "Was it anybody--I know?" "Why----" "I must know." Her eyes were on my face and I yielded. "Mr. Argand was one of the Directors--in fact, was the president of the road--but I have no direct proof--yet." "Do you mean my aunt's husband?" I nodded. She turned her face away. "I ought not to have told you," I added. "Oh! yes, you ought. I would have wanted to know if it had been my father. I have the dearest father in the world. You do not know how good and kind he is, and how generous to every one. He has almost ruined himself working for others." I said I had no doubt he was all she said; but my heart sank as I recalled my part in the paper I had written about him. I knew I must tell her some time, but I hesitated to do it now. I began to talk about myself, a subject I am rather fond of, but on this occasion I had possibly more excuse than usual. "My mother also died when I was a child," she said, sighing, as I related the loss of mine and said that I was just beginning to realize what it was. It appeared to draw us nearer together. I was conscious of her sympathy, and under its influence I went on and told her the wretched story of my life, my folly and my failure, and my final resolve to begin anew and be something worth while. I did not spare myself and I made no concealments. I felt her sympathy and it was as sweet to me as ever was grace to a famished soul. I had been so long alone that it seemed to unlock Heaven. "I believe you will succeed," she said, turning and looking me in the face. A sudden fire sprang into my brain and throbbed in my heart. "If you will say that to me and mean it, I will."