"_His_ care and planning!" echoed Bertha, turning slowly toward him. "His! Did you not hear that Senator Blundel"-- "It was he who went to Senator Blundel," the professor answered. "It was he who spoke to the wife of the Secretary of State. I learned it from Mrs. Merriam. Out of all the pain we have borne, or may have to bear, the memory of Philip's faithful affection for us"-- He did not finish his sentence. Bertha stopped him. Her clenched hand had risen to her side, and was pressed against it. "It was Philip who came to me in my trouble in Virginia," she said. "It was Philip who saw my danger and warned me of it when I would not hear him; but I could not know that I owed him such a debt as this!" "We should never have known it from him," the professor replied. "He would have kept silent to the end." Bertha looked at the clock upon the mantel. "It is too late to send for him now," she said; "it is too late, and a whole night must pass before"-- "Before you say to him--what?" asked the professor. "Before I tell him that Richard made a mistake," she answered, with white and trembling lips; "that he must take his money back--that I will not have it." She caught her father's arm and clung to it, looking into his troubled face. "Papa," she said, "will you take me home again? I think you must, if you will. There seems to be no place for me. If you will let me stay with you until I have time to think." The professor laid his hand upon hers and held it closely. "My dear," he said, "my home is yours. It has never seemed so much mine since you left it; but this may not be so bad as you think. I do not know how much we may rely upon Richard's hopes,--they are not always to be relied upon,--but it appears that he has hopes of retrieving some of his losses through a certain speculation he seems to have regarded as a failure, but which suddenly promises to prove a success." "I have never thought of being poor," said Bertha; "I do not think I should know how to be poor. But, somehow, it is not the money I am thinking of; that will come later, I suppose. I scarcely seem to realize yet"-- Her voice and her hand shook, and she clung to him more closely. "Everything has gone wrong," she said, wildly; "everything must be altered. No one is left to care for me but you. No one must do it but you. Now that Richard has gone, it is not Philip who must be kind to me--not Philip--Philip last of all!" "Not Philip?" he echoed. "_Not_ Philip?" And, as he said it, they both heard feet ascending the steps at the front door. "My child," said the professor, "that is Philip now. He spoke of calling in on me on his way home. Perhaps he has been anxious at finding me out so late. I do not understand you--but must I go and send him away?"