“Yes; you know I have not lost the girlish habit of liking to lie awake and talk. You go to sleep the moment you touch the pillow. Ah, me! how we change! I remember how you used to keep me awake with your ineffable words and caresses! and I was so indifferent then. You loved me more than I could possibly appreciate;” and she added, taking the hair-pins from her silvery hair, and with a little sigh, “Ah! if I were only young again!” For answer, the doctor sang the trivial words of Beranger: “Combien je regrette Mon bras si dodu, Ma jambe bien faite Et le temps perdu.” “Translate your French. It is something shocking, no doubt.” “No, indeed. But I could not do it justice. I promise to keep you awake to-night though, for I must consult you about a matter of importance.” “What is it about?” “It is about Susie Dykes.” “She does look ill, I think, and she has been so silent and moody lately. You don’t think she has anything serious the matter with her, do you?” “Yes, serious enough. It is strange you have not guessed.” “What!” exclaimed Mrs. Forest, a sudden light breaking into her mind. “You don’t mean to say——” “Yes, just that,” interrupted the doctor, “and the agony of the poor girl is dreadful. What is worse, Dan has put it out of his power to save her from disgrace.” “Dan!” exclaimed Mrs. Forest, in great disgust. “I don’t believe he knows anything about it. The shameless thing! No doubt——” “Now! now! Don’t go off at half-cock. He admits it all—did so in my study last night, where he said he would rather die than marry Susie.” “Oh, Heaven! How dreadful for Dan!” “And you think only of him.” “Only of him! Is he not my child? Is it not natural that I should think only of him?” “Many things are natural that are very selfish. Is Susie not somebody’s child too as well as Dan? And what is his suffering compared to hers? Will the world howl at him as a sinner, kick him down further into hell, and abandon him with virtuous scorn? No, no; there’s plenty of girls here in Oakdale, of good family too, who would marry him to-morrow for all his damnable treachery to this poor girl, while the hypocrites, drawing their immaculate skirts clear of his victim, wink at his act, and distinguish it ‘as sowing wild oats.’ And you, my wife—you among the number! You would send her out to die in the streets, would you?” “I am sorry for her, of course. You know I am.” Mrs. Forest was thinking of Clara’s prospects; of the aristocratic Delanos, who were soon coming to Oakdale, and the event was important. What would they say at Clara’s family supporting and harboring under their roof a girl so disgraced? Mrs. Forest added, “But we cannot be expected to be victimized because of her want of virtue. Of course she cannot stay here.”