"Settle?" Once more that acrimonious laugh came from Mrs. Curtis's lips. "How are you going to settle for sleepless nights, for worry and for tears? What can pay for those dreary days which grew into weeks and months since hope for my children was torn from my life?" She flung her arms wide in the anguish which tortured her. "How are you going to wipe out the fact that my poor lame baby"--she pointed at Charles Augustus--"had to depend upon charity to be able to play as other boys--plain charity," she almost screamed. "Or that he"--she indicated Joe--"has been forced into the world to struggle for an education he might have had in comfort." "Oh," moaned Virginia. The misery of the story clouded her eyes as they turned from the passion-torn woman to her father. The flood of the emotion-driven woman's words seemed to have made Obadiah helpless. He stood as if awaiting sentence for his evil doing, an old man abject and forlorn. As she looked at him, a wave of pity swept over Virginia and her love for him struggled in her heart, regardless of all that had been said against him. "My father can't be to blame for all of this. I couldn't believe it of him," she cried. It was as if the note of grief and entreaty in the girl's voice tempered the anger of Mrs. Curtis. She dropped into a chair and began to sob. Joe Curtis arose hastily, limped over to her side, and tried to sooth her. At the sound of his mother's grief, Charles Augustus put his head upon Helen's shoulder and wept also. Virginia moved over and gently touched the shoulder of the sobbing woman, who, flinching from contact with the girl's hand, drew herself sharply away. "Don't, mother," pleaded Joe. Virginia withdrew her hand, yet she remained by Mrs. Curtis's chair. "Tell me the whole story," she begged. "I must know. I have the right to know." Even through her own grief, the anxiety and unhappiness of the girl touched the older woman. She raised her brimming eyes. Her temper had died away and she spoke rapidly, almost in a monotone, broken by sob hiccoughs. "At my husband's death every thing that he left me was invested in our mill. It was a good business and should have given me and my boys the comforts and even the luxuries of life. Before his death, he had borrowed money to make improvements, giving notes secured by a mortgage upon the plant. "After he had gone, I took charge of the mill and tried to run it myself. I was not a very good business woman. I had a hard time to pay the interest on our indebtedness. When the notes came due, I asked for a renewal but my request was refused. I was thunderstruck. I learned that your father had bought the notes, and wherever I tried to raise money I was refused because of his influence as a rival manufacturer. So I lost my mill and had to meet life, a widow with a baby and a young boy, a little money, and this old farm."