"I would rather hear it now," replied Hazel. "No trouble could be greater than that we have had to bear, and I see you have bad news for us, Mr Geringer." "I regret to say I have--very bad news." "Tell me," said Hazel sadly, as she gazed in her visitor's face. "It is about the future, my dear child," he said slowly; and he watched the effect of his words. "You and your brother and sisters have been brought up here quite in luxury." "Papa was always most indulgent and kind." "Always," assented Geringer. "There, I will not hesitate--I will not go roundabout to tell you. I only ask you, my dear Hazel, to try and bear with fortitude the terrible news I have to inflict upon you, and to beg that you will not associate it in future with me." "I shall always think of you as my father's most trusted friend. But pray, pray tell me now, and--and--I will try to bear it as I should." She was choked now by her sobs, and as Geringer tenderly took one of her hands, she let him retain it while he spoke. "My dear Hazel," he said, "your late father always passed for a wealthy man, but I grieve to say that of late he had embarked in some most unfortunate speculations." "Poor papa!" "They were so bad that at last all depended upon one change in the market--a change that did not take place till after his death." Hazel sobbed. "If he had lived two days longer he would have known that he was a ruined man." Hazel's tears ceased to flow, and Geringer went on:-- "I grieve, then, to tell you, my dear child, that instead of leaving his family in a tolerably independent state, my poor friend has left you all penniless." "Penniless?" "Yes. Worse; for this house and its furniture must go to defray the debts he has left behind. It is terrible--terrible indeed." "Terrible?" "Yes, dreadful," he said, gazing in her face. "Is that all?" "All? All, my child? What do you mean?" "Is that the terrible trouble you said that you had to communicate." "Yes, my dear child," he exclaimed; "it is dreadful news." "But it is only money matters," said Hazel innocently; and her face lit up with a pleasant smile. "I thought it was some dreadful trouble--some fresh misfortune." And as she sat looking him full in the eyes, her quick imagination carried her on to the time when Archibald would ask her to be his wife. His father was rich, and they would have a nice, bright little home somewhere, and mamma and the little girls would live with them. Percy would come home during his holidays, and they would be as happy as the day was long. Certainly, she did shrink a little at the thought of mamma and Archibald; but then she knew he would be as self-denying as herself, and he would do anything for her sake, of course. She was brought back to the present by her visitor. "You do not think this so great a trouble, then!" he said.