"Well, she got her money--they all got their money," I said at last. "I am the only one who is ruined--no, not the only one--there is Sally and there is the child. I'd feel easier," I added, echoing the words of the old woman aloud, "I'd feel easier if I were the only one." A clock somewhere in the city struck the hour of midnight, and while the sound was still in the air, the door opened softly and Sally came into the room. She had slipped on a wrapper over her nightdress, and her hair, flattened and warmed by the pillow, hung in a single braid over her bosom. There were deep circles under her eyes, which shone the more brilliantly because of the heavy shadows. "What is the matter, Ben? Why don't you come upstairs?" "I couldn't sleep--I am thinking," I answered, almost roughly, oppressed by my weight of misery. "Would you rather be alone? Shall I go away again?" "Yes, I'd rather be alone." She went silently to the door, stood there a minute, and then ran back with her arms outstretched. "Oh, Ben, Ben, why are you so hard? Why are you so cruel?" "Cruel? Hard? To you, Sally?" "You treat me as if--as if I'd married you for your money and you've made me hate and despise it. I wish--I almost wish we hadn't a penny." I laughed the bitter, mirthless laugh that had broken from me at dinner. "As a matter of fact we haven't--not a single penny that we can honestly call our own." She drew back instantly, her head held high under the branching electric jet in the ceiling. "Well, I'm glad of it," she responded defiantly. "You don't in the least understand what it means, Sally. It isn't merely giving up a few luxuries, it is actually going without the necessities. It is practically beginning again." "I am glad of it," she repeated, and there was no regret in her voice. "Oh, can't you understand?" "Tell me and I will try." "I've lost everything. I'm ruined." "There is nothing left?" "There is honour," I said bitterly, "a couple of hundred thousand dollars of debt, and a little West Virginia railroad too poor to go bankrupt." "Then we must start from the very bottom?" "From the very bottom. Nothing that you are likely to imagine can be worse than the facts--and I've brought you to it." Something that was like a sob burst from me, and turning away, I flung myself into the chair on the hearth-rug. "Can't you think of anything that would be worse?" she asked quietly. I shook my head, "The worst thing about it is that I've brought you to it." "Wouldn't it be worse," she went on in the same level voice, "if you had lost me?" "Lost you!" I cried, and my arms were open at the thought. "I'm glad, I'm glad." With the words she was on her knees at my side, and her mouth touched my cheek. "I knew it wasn't the worst, Ben,--I knew you'd rather give up the money than give up me. Ah, can't you see--can't you see, that the worst can't come to us while we are still together?"