"But don't you remember that Charlie himself proposed going away? Why, he was down and out--sick of Boston and everything in it. He said he never wanted to come back or to be heard of again. That was to save me--just _me_--from--from trouble. Is it likely that he would be willing to have me--to have any of us take a step like this now? How do you know that--that he'd like to--to have his old life raked up again? He is evidently playing a part of some sort. Have we the right, without consulting him, to have all this put in the papers and flashed from end to end of the country?" Celeste stood like a statue, cold and motionless, in his half-embrace. The dim light disclosed her marble cheek to his sight. Her wide-open eyes caught the flare from the street lamp and gave it back in gleams of indecision. "You say he spoke of Ruth's inheritance?" she gasped. "More of her than you or me," said William, grasping at the straw. "He fairly dotes on her. But don't think he would stand by her if--if we anger him by this exposure. He would hate us all, Ruth along with us. In a burst of fury he would cut us all out. Oh, I know him, Lessie," went on William, imbibing hope from the dead stare turned on him. "I have been right at his elbow for over a year. He has given me his innermost thoughts." "I know," Celeste whispered. "I've noticed it, and knew why it was. He looked upon you as a paragon of nobility because you--because he thought you were sacrificing so much to atone for Charlie's conduct. He told me once that it had given him a new faith in men--that he had not thought such a thing possible. But that was wrong--cursed of God. It was hypocrisy as black as the lowest vats of hell. And I helped you in it. I feared all along that my intuition was telling me the truth, but because I didn't know where Charlie was, because I thought he might be dead, I kept silent. But, husband, it is different now--oh--oh! so different! God has sent us this trial. Charlie's life and happiness are at stake. If we are untrue he will bear the burden meant for us. God knows he has suffered enough for his boyish escapades--that has been proved by his throwing off his old habits and becoming a clean, decent, and ambitious man. He loves and is loved, and yet he is regarded as little more than a tramp by the people around him. William, I am weak, wavering, and all but dying under this. What am I to do?" He put both his hands on her shoulders, turned her face directly to his, and went on, reassuringly: "Go to bed, darling. Let it be as it is. Remember I gave promise to Charlie not to follow him up. He was to be free forever. Go to bed, dear. This is a tempest in a teapot. You are all wrought up and nervous. You'd never forgive yourself for stepping in between our child and her rightful inheritance. Think of that. How would you like to be treated that way just to satisfy some one else's finical qualms as to right and wrong?"