"Clarice! Do you think that I have told him?" she said, vehemently. "Oh, no. Poor father has enough troubles to bear, without my heaping more on him. He knows nothing of my reason for refusing to marry." "But he objects himself?" said Clarice, much perplexed. "Yes, because of my brother. Frank has brought disgrace on us, and has died in disgrace." "When and where, Prudence?" "I can't tell you anything," rejoined the girl; "all I know is that just after the burial of your guardian, father received some bad news about Frank. I have not seen Frank for years, nor have I heard anything about him. He was always in trouble, and father was always sending him money. He borrowed that thousand to help Frank and get him out of some scrape. But this time the news must have been awful, for father came to me, and, saying that Frank was dead, and that he never wished to hear his name mentioned again, he wrote off to get another clergyman, and arranged that we should go away for a time." "But has he never told you what your brother did?" "No. I have asked him three or four times; he will not say a word about poor dead Frank. And then father told me that because Frank had done something wicked, that I was to give up all thought of marrying Ferdy." "Did you agree to that?" "No. I said that Frank's sins should never spoil my life, and father was very angry with me." "That was perfectly right," said Clarice, heartily, her common sense coming to her aid; "if the sins of the father are visited on the children, that is no reason that the additional burden of a brother's faults should be heaped on a sister's shoulders. You were quite right to stick to Ferdy, my dear. But what caused you to change your mind, Prudence?" "I was told that my father had murdered Mr. Horran," said the poor girl again, and in the same terrified whisper; "and that if I married Ferdy, information would be given to the police, which would lead to his arrest." "What a preposterous story," said Clarice, indignantly, "did you believe it, Prudence?" The girl glanced round again, and seemed to shrink into nothing as she whispered, "Yes!" Clarice stared at her. "You ought to stick up for your father," said she, with some slang, but with great truth. "God help me, I wish I could," wailed Prudence, clasping her hands. Clarice caught one of her hands. "Be more explicit," she said, quickly; "you have told me so much that you must tell me all." "You won't let the police know about father's guilt?" "No, because I don't believe that he is guilty. Why, the jury brought in a verdict against Osip. The evidence was perfectly plain. Go on, tell me all you know."