I am sending herewith three thousand dollars, which are my savings up to date. I had got together only twenty-five hundred, but when my employer, at my suggestion, succeeded in putting a certain deal through the other day which he considered advantageous to his interests, he insisted on adding five hundred dollars to the amount which I had told him was going to you. I am sending the money by express instead of by draft on any bank, for I would still prefer for you not to know where I am at present. When I have made the last payment on my debt (if you will let me call it that), I may feel differently, but until I am able to clear it all up I shall still hide from you and everybody who knew me in the past. I do hope you will read these lines kindly. I have wronged you (terribly wronged you), dear father, but I am trying now to live right, and surely you will be glad to know that, even at this late day. Concealing my whereabouts may anger you, I am well aware of that; but the good man for whom I am working thinks it is best--for a while, at any rate. Of course, if I could have a talk with you, I'd know better how you look at the matter, but being so far away leaves me no alternative than to let things remain as they are. Good-bye, dear father. It has taken six years to get together the money I am sending, but if I live and keep my health I feel reasonably sure that I can send the balance, including the interest, within the next two years, for I am doing much better than I was. When he had finished reading the letter, Simon Walton laid it on the desk before him and sat in deep thought for several minutes. Then, with no visible trace of emotion on his wrinkled face, he took the money in his hands, laid it on the letter, and rose and went to the door opening into the counting-room. He stood looking at the workers for several minutes, and then, happening to catch the glance of Toby, who was dictating to a stenographer, he signalled him to approach. Handing him the letter and the bills, he said, curtly: “Credit the money on my private account, then read that letter carefully and bring it back to me. Don't let anybody see it. It's private.” “Very well, sir,” said the clerk. “I was just dictating a note to Morton & Co., telling them that we can't possibly extend--” “Never mind about that _now_,” Walton ordered, sharply. “Do as I tell you!” And he turned back into his office, where he sat slowly nodding his great, shaggy head, as was his habit when making up his mind over any matter of importance.