“You were afraid that in my despondency I might injure myself,” Fred broke in; “but you needn't ever--” “I wasn't afraid of any such thing!” Whipple threw in, almost indignantly. “I knew there was no such danger when you had fought the fight you have for six years hand-running, and got as high up as you have; but I was a little afraid--well, to be honest--I was afraid you might have seen somebody on the train who you wanted to avoid on account of matters long past and buried, and that you thought it might be advisable to--to keep out of sight, that's all.” “It wasn't that, Mr. Whipple, I assure you,” Walton answered, in a husky voice, and he sat down opposite his friend and laid his hands firmly on the old man's knees. “The time has come, Mr. Whipple, when I must tell you more about my past life. After I have done so, you will fully understand how I--” “No, no, I won't listen!” Whipple raised his hands in protest. “I don't want to hear a word. It wrings my silly old heart, anyway, to think of what may lie away back there before you come to me. You seem to be a son of my own, born to me in your terrible trouble, and I want to think of you that way. I thought, at first, that it would be a pretty thing to let you pay back the debt hanging over you with just your own earnings; but I don't think so now. That amount of money would be nothing to me, and you know it. You've seen me donate more than that to causes that didn't interest me one-hundredth part as much as this does. My boy, when we get to New York I'll draw the money, and you must take it and clear yourself. I'll never rest till you do.” “I can't do that, Mr. Whipple,” Walton said, in a grateful tone. “When I left home I told my father the money should be replaced by my own earnings, and it must be that way.” “You can't keep me from raising your salary if I see fit and proper,” Whipple argued. “You are the best man I ever employed from any standpoint, and you don't draw pay enough--not half enough.” “I can't let you do it,” Walton said, with a grateful smile. “I am already paid more than any other man in my position. To give me more would be charity, and I don't want that. I want to pay my way out, Mr. Whipple.” “Well, you'll do it,” the old man gave in, fervently. “If you was to be hampered now, my brave boy, I'd actually lose faith in God and the hereafter. I honestly believe you'll get your reward, and be reinstated in all you ever wanted. Now, good-night. Sleep sound, and let's not allow this to spoil our good time. I reckon this trip has sort o' turned your thoughts onto bygone days, but we'll have other things to think of in New York. Good-night, my son, good-night.” “Good-night, sir.”