“Yes, I had to do it,” the young artist interrupted, her glance averted. “I could not bear to have you think Fred was anything but noble and true and good. Margaret, I cried for joy over the fine news in his letter. I couldn't believe you had snubbed the poor boy in New York for nothing. I was puzzled for a while, and then the horrible truth dawned on me. I hope he will never learn that he was so terribly misjudged. It would hurt him more than all else that has happened to him. They said he was bad, Margaret--wild, and a gambler, and all that; but to me he was like a sweet, thoughtful brother. If I'd only listened to his advice, I'd never have been situated like this; but I didn't. I thought I was very wise then. I have Lionel now, of course. He seemed to come to me like an angel of light out of a black sky of infinite pain. But if God will only show me a way to save him from future trouble, I--I--” “There, I have made you cry!” Margaret exclaimed, regretfully. “I am so sorry!” “I don't give way often.” Dora brushed the tears from her eyes. “It is only when I think of what may come to my little darling. Perhaps we shall get to Paris before he is old enough to understand, and then all this will fade from his childish memory.” “Yes, yes, you must go to Paris,” Margaret said. “I have more money than I need. Dora, surely you would not refuse to let me--” “Oh, no, no, no!” Dora cried out. “I couldn't think of it. What is done must be done by _me_, by _my_ brain, and by _my_ hands. God will surely let me atone in that way for my mistake. It is what I have prayed for night and day all these years, and the reward surely can't be far off.” She forced a wan smile to her rigid face, and added: “Then, like the Arabs, some night we'll fold our tents and silently steal away from old Stafford. Only the grocer-boy and the postman will know, at first, and then the last chapter of our life here will be written. It seems sad, doesn't it?--but it is sweet, so very, very sweet and soothing.” Margaret was crying. Without a word, she kissed Dora and went out. But she did not return home at once. She kept on down the little street on which the cottage stood till she came to another which led to the square. She passed the stores, bowing to an acquaintance in a doorway or in a passing carriage, and went on to Walton's bank. “Is Mr. Walton in?” she asked Toby Lassiter, at the cashier's window in the green wire grating. “He has just this minute stepped out,” Toby answered. “He will be right in. Won't you go to his office and wait?” “Thank you, yes,” she answered, and went back to the musty little room, taking a chair near the old man's desk.