Mahala was on her feet, staring in wide-eyed terror, for her father’s head dropped on his arms on the table before him, and the nerve strain of many months, and of the day in particular, broke into great, shuddering sobs. Mahala, at a very few times in her life, had seen her father’s eyes moist with compassion, but she never in her life had seen any man cry as men do cry when their backs are against the wall and horrifying extremities yawn at their feet, when there comes to them the realization that they are not living for themselves, but for those that they truly love. In a minute, Mahala was on her father’s knees beside the table; her arms were around his neck; and by and by, when he had grown calmer and forced himself into quietness, she began asking comprehensive questions. With the memory of many months past culminating vividly before her, she was not long in realizing the difficulty. With quick intuition and the clear insight that had always characterized her, she knew the situation. When her father assented to her question as to whether Mr. Moreland was pressing him about money matters, she knew the essential thing that was necessary for her to know. “What a fool I’ve been,” she cried. “I’ve always wondered why Martin Moreland was so friendly to you, why he was constantly urging you to accept his offers of loans and trying to induce you to spend more money than you really should for subscriptions and things. I’ve wondered and now I understand. Junior has sent me word that he’s coming here to-night, and he’s exactly like his father. He thinks that if he has enough money, he can buy anything in the world that he wants. Well, he is destined to learn that he hasn’t got enough money to buy me!” In a panic, Mr. Spellman grasped her arm. He implored her to think of her mother; to think of him; to think of herself. He tried to put into cold words that would make very clear to her understanding, the exact result of the ruin that would face them unless she prevented it. She laughed at him and told him it was lucky that her mother had forced her to learn to perform miracles with her needle. “Only think, Papa,” she cried, “how very capable I am! I can earn enough money with fancy embroidering and with sewing or millinery, to keep us all three in comfort. Lift up your head. Go tell Martin Moreland to take what belongs to him. Thank God that I don’t belong to him. He can’t buy either my body or my soul!” In the midst of this Mrs. Spellman opened the door. Her husband and her daughter were so engrossed that they did not notice her. She stepped back and stood listening, first in amazement, then in sickening fear, at the end in rising defiance. At Mahala’s last words, she came into the room. She took a stand beside her. She put her arm around her and told her that she was right.