“Don’t touch me,” Louie said, “I am only worthy to kneel in the dust at your feet and beg your pardon for my father’s sin. It was he who played with the young man in Butte. I didn’t know it till just before he died, when he told me the story, but not the young man’s name, and I never dreamed who it was. But, oh, Miss Percy, listen to me. Father didn’t want to play at first, but the young man insisted; and when all was lost, father offered to refund a part. He told me so, and he would not lie with death resting on his pillow, and that young man’s face always before him, as he said it was. He never gambled that way again, and he repented bitterly and was so sorry, and died a good man. I know he did. But your curse followed him, and has fallen so heavily on me, to whom you have been so kind, but can never be again. I know it, and I must go away from you all into the world alone and do the best I can. I wish I could die as mother did! Oh, oh, this is worse than all the rest—that father’s sin should confront me now, just as I was beginning to be happy. I remember he never seemed to want to see you in Merivale, or hear about you. He must have known who you were, and why didn’t he tell me and save me from this humiliation. You can never want to speak to me again, or look at me. But I didn’t know, and I could go down on my face at your feet, but it would do no good. It would not bring your brother back. Truly the sins of the fathers are visited upon the children, and I can’t bear it.” She had talked steadily until now, when she broke down and cried bitterly, while Miss Percy sat for a moment immovable. The blow had fallen heavily upon her, taking away all her strength and filling her with dismay that the girl she had loved and cared for was the daughter of the man whom, in her anguish, she had cursed as the cause of her brother’s death. Then her strong principle and sense of justice came to her aid. Louie was not to blame, and something in the girl’s distress touched every chord of pity in her heart. “Louie,” she said, winding her arm around her, “don’t give way like this and blame yourself for what you could not help. It is a strange Providence which has brought us together and drawn me so to you. God’s hand is surely in it; and if you were my sister before, you are doubly so now—taken in the place of my poor brother. Don’t cry so hard; you frighten me.” “I must, I must cry,” Louie said. “Please let me go to think it out and decide what to do.” She wrested herself from Miss Percy and left the room, meeting in the corridor Fred, who was looking for her. “Louie,” he said, “I want to take you to mother. I have told her, and she is so glad.” At sight of him Louie’s tears burst out afresh, but she did not repel him. Something in his voice drew her to him, and with a great cry she threw herself into his arms and sobbed: