If I had expected a melodramatic tableau, I was disappointed. I had always figured the inside of the Pillar House as full of treasures, for they told tales of the old whaler's wealth. My prying eyes found it bare, like a deserted house gutted by seasons of tramps. A little fire of twigs and a broken butter-box on the hearth made a pathetic shift at domestic cheer. Minister Malden sat at one side of it, his back to me, his face half-buried in his hands. Little Hope Gibbs played quietly on the floor, building pig-pens with a box of matches, a sober, fire-lined shade. Sympathy Gibbs was not in the picture, but I heard her voice after a moment, coming out from an invisible corner. "How much do you want this time, Will?" "Want?" There was an anguished protest in the man's cry. "Need, then." The voice was softer. The minister's face dropped back in his hands, and after a moment the words came out between his tight fingers, hardly to be heard. "Five hundred dollars, Sympathy." I thought there was a gasp from the corner, suppressed. I caught the sound of a drawer pulled open and the vague rustling of skirts as the woman moved about. Her voice was as even as death itself. "Here it is, Will. It brings us to the end, Will. God knows where it will come from next time." "It--it--you mean--" An indefinable horror ran though the minister's voice, and I could see the cords shining on the hands which gripped the chair-arms. "Next time--next year--" His eyes were fixed on the child at his feet. "God knows where it will come from. Perhaps--before another time--something will happen. Dear little Hope--little girl!" The child's eyes turned with a preoccupied wonder as the man's hand touched her hair; then went back to the alluring pattern of the matches. Sympathy Gibbs spoke once more. "I've found out who holds the mortgage, Will. Mr. Dow told me." His hand slid from Hope's hair and hung in the air. During the momentary hush his head, half-turned, seemed to wait in a praying suspense. "It's Mate Snow," the voice went on. The man covered his face. "Thank God!" he said. I thought he shivered. "Then it's all--all right," he sighed after a moment. "I was afraid it might be somebody who would--who might make trouble." He took out a handkerchief and touched his forehead with it. "Thank--God!" "Why do you thank God?" A weariness, like anger, touched her words. "Why? Why do I thank God?" He faced her, wondering. "Because he has given me a strong man to be my friend and stand behind me. Because Mate Snow, who might have hated me, has--"