"It _would_ make complications," Edith ventured, in a low voice, "if it proved to be young Follett—with Bob in love with his sister." Junia spoke not so much from impulse as from inspiration. "He’s more than in love with her. He’s married to her." "Mother!" "Yes; he was married to her a few days before he sailed. I’ve known it all along." Edith was breathless. "Did he tell you?" "No; she did." "She? The Follett girl? Why, mother!" Junia rose. She knew that if her suspicions were correct she would have things to do before she slept. "Go to bed now, dear; and I’ll come to your room and give you the whole story. In the meantime I may have to tell your father." "You mean to say that he doesn’t know?" "No; not yet. I’ve been rather hoping that before I told him Bob would—would see his way out of the mess." "He’ll never do that, never in this world—not according to what he’s said to me." "Oh, well, he didn’t know everything then that he’ll have to know now. But go and say good night to your father; and I’ll come up by the time you’re in bed." "Mother, you’re amazing!" Edith spoke more in awe than in admiration; but she obeyed orders by going to her father. She found him still sitting in the chair by the telephone, bowed forward, his elbows on his knees, and his forehead in his hands. When he lifted his haggard eyes toward her she stood still. "Daddy, what in the world has happened? Who is it that has killed some one? We couldn’t help hearing that much." He raised himself. "Come here." Going forward, she knelt down beside him, taking his hand and kissing it. "You poor daddy! You’re bothered, aren’t you?" "It’s—it’s young Follett. He’s been stealing money from the bank, and now he’s shot one of the detectives who heard he was hiding in a cabin out on the New Jersey marshes. They’d sent out a description of him to the suburban stations. And only to-day I told his sister that I’d call the thing off and give him another chance." "She came to see you?" "She came to see me." "Then you did what you could, didn’t you?" "I did what I could—then." In spite of the emphasis on the final word, he slapped his knee with new conviction. "I’ve done what I could all through. It’s no use saying I haven’t, because I have. There’s just so much you can do, and you can’t do any more. You can’t make a business a home for indigent old gentlemen—now, can you?" He sprang to his feet, leaving her kneeling by the chair. "No, I don’t suppose you can," she assented, rising slowly. "But I do wish you’d talk to Mr. Ayling sometime, daddy. He seems to see all these things from new points of view—" He was pacing about the room very much like Max in moments of agitation. "Oh, new points of view! There’s only one point of view, I tell you, and that’s the one on what we’ve made the country prosperous." She smiled wistfully. "Prosperous for some." "Well, that’s better than prosperous for nobody, isn’t it?"