But could she, even if willing to sacrifice herself, could she ask Sam Appleby to take her? Yet she knew this would be the easiest thing in the world. A mere hint to Mr. Appleby that she approved of his son would bring the younger man down to the house at once and matters would then take care of themselves. But could she do it? She looked at Jeff, as he sat talking to her father, his strong, fine face alight with the earnestness of their discussion. He was a man of a thousand—her own Jeffrey. No, she could not break his heart—she had no right to do that. It would be a crime to blot out the joy and happiness from the eager young face. And then she looked at the other dear face. Her father, worn and aging, but still in rugged health. Could she let the inevitable happen, and see him turned out of the home that he loved—the home that had so long been his sanctuary, his refuge from the cold injustice of his fellow-men? And her mother, almost ill from her fright and foreboding. To add the disaster of poverty and homelessness—no, she couldn’t do that! And so poor Maida wondered and worried; her thoughts going round in a circle, and coming back to the two men she loved, and knew she must break one heart or the other. At one moment her duty to her parents seemed preëminent. Then, again, she realized a duty to herself and to the man who loved her. “I don’t know _what_ to do,” she thought, piteously; “I’ll wait till Mr. Appleby comes back here, and then I’ll tell him just how I’m placed. Perhaps I can appeal to his better nature.” But Maida Wheeler well knew that however she might appeal to Samuel Appleby, it would be in vain. She knew from the very fact that he came to her home, and made the offers and threats that he did make, that his mind was made up, and no power on earth could move him from his decision. He had a strong case, he probably thought; the offer of full pardon to Dan Wheeler, and the offer to Maida to keep quiet about another heir, would, he doubtless thought, be sufficient to win his cause. “What an awful man he is,” she thought. “I wish he were dead! I know I oughtn’t to wish that, but I do. I’d kill him myself if it would help father. I oughtn’t to say that—and I don’t suppose I really would do it, but it would simplify matters a lot! And somebody said, ‘We are all capable of crime—even the best of us.’ Well, of course I wouldn’t kill the old man, but he’d better not give me a real good chance!” “What are you thinking about, little girl?” asked Allen, turning to her. Maida looked at him and then at her father, and said, deliberately: “I was just thinking how I’d like to kill Samuel Appleby.” “Senior, junior, or both?” laughed Allen, who thought little of her words, save as a jest. “Senior, I meant, but we may as well make it a wholesale slaughter.” “Don’t, Maida,” her father looked grieved. “Don’t speak flippantly of such subjects.” “Well, father, why not be honest? Wouldn’t you like to kill him?”