Mr. Tallant submitted to his daughter’s caresses, and his mind was suddenly carried back to the days of his second wife. In the midst of great trouble and distress of mind the thoughts will often ramble to times and things altogether apart from the immediate cause of your mental anxiety. Mr. Tallant thought of the wife whom he had loved so dearly, and then wondered that no likeness remained of her in his child. “You are not quite ruined, perhaps, father,” said the girl, by-and-by; “we can go and live in some quiet little place, where we shall be unknown.” “Ruined, my love,” said the merchant, with a faint smile, “what made you think of that?” “That great sum of money which you paid, father--so nobly, so like your true self,” said the girl, with a look of admiration shining through her tears. “I could do that several times over, and be far from ruined then,” said the merchant, with just a touch of pride in his manner; “it is our name that is ruined, our name that is blemished; _his_ name--he who was to be the pride of the land.” “But the paper says the name of Tallant has risen higher than ever with your magnanimous and noble revenge,” said Phœbe, timidly, for she had never in all her life before spoken to her father of money and things appertaining to trade and commerce. “The papers!” repeated the merchant, bitterly. “What can they say or do? Who cares for the papers in times like these, when the greatest houses in the country are tottering to their very foundation. The name of Tallant would have risen like a rock of gold in this panic, and been impressed for all time in the history of finance, but for this wretched, this miserable deception.” “But your own name, father; your own honour,” said the girl. “What do I care for myself,” said the merchant, interrupting her; “it was for him that I worked, and saved, and hoarded. Did I grudge him? No; he was his own master; he had the run of my own bank. But there, there, Phœbe, say no more upon the subject. We will try to talk of other things.” “The Somertons, too, will be in great distress,” said Phœbe, “about their son.” “Why?” asked the merchant. “Did you not read it in the paper?” “I have read nothing in the paper,” was the reply. “In prison, and charged with robbery,” said Phœbe, softly; “but a counsel appeared for him and said it was a conspiracy.” “That is easily said,” the merchant answered. “Robbery! whom has _he_ robbed?” Phœbe shuddered at the emphasis in the latter sentence, which convinced her that her father’s opinion of Richard was sealed and settled. “His prosecutor is a person named Gibbs--Shuffleton Gibbs,” said Phœbe. “The greatest scoundrel in London,” said the merchant. “Better to have such a man against you than for you; he is the intimate and bosom friend of your brother. Give me the paper, love, and leave me to read it.” Phœbe opened out the paper which lay upon the table, kissed her father’s forehead, and went to comfort the Somertons.