Most of them took his advice, and went home with heavy hearts as they thought of their hard earnings gone through the recklessness of a man they had trusted implicitly, and who was lying in his own house, white and still as the dead, speaking to no one and only answering in monosyllables when spoken to. He had not seen his wife. The physicians did not think it best, as she was growing quiet when he came, and the sight of him would set her off again with hysterics, which, complicated with heart trouble, might prove serious. Louie had a double task, caring for her father and mother, and she faced it bravely. She saw Mr. Blake when he came in the afternoon and heard from him how little there was left of the wreck, and asked for a list of the depositors, especially the smaller ones—the working women and men to whom their loss meant more than to Godfrey Sheldon. She called the four servants together—the coachman and cook and laundress and housemaid—and said to them: “We can pay you up to Saturday night. After that we can’t afford it, and you must go.” “What will you do?” they asked, and she replied: “I am young and strong. I can get along somehow.” The coachman and laundress knew they were not necessary, but the cook and housemaid felt that they were, and said: “We will stay a few days, and matters may brighten.” Louie thanked them, but knew that things would not brighten. She had talked with her mother, and made her understand how poor they were, and won her consent to sell everything which belonged to them, and pay the small depositors as far as possible. She was reckoning on paper how much the house and furniture and horses and carriage and diamonds and piano and plate would probably bring, when Herbert was announced. The moment she was alone with him Louie began to cry. Then, repressing her tears, she said, “It was kind in you to come. I knew you would, but you know everything is ended now.” “What do you mean?” Herbert asked, pretending not to understand her. “I mean,” she said, with a catch between every breath, “I cannot expect you to think of me as you have done, after what has happened. You asked me once if father was a gambler, and I was very angry. Now, I am too hurt to be angry at anyone. I feel as if every nerve was bruised with a sudden blow. We shall never rise above this disgrace, and you must not share it. You cannot. You are free, except as a friend. I do want you for that. Oh, Herbert!” She broke down a little, then rallied, and her eyes bright with tears looked at the young man, who was silent a moment; then he said, “You mistake me if you think I wish to be free. I do not, but am so hedged in that I cannot do what I ought to do—come out openly as your future husband and stand by you. Father is like a raging lion. I must give him time to cool, and then I’ll tell him the truth, but give you up—never!”