“Why! Why!” he coughed. “My dear woman, you have a very accommodating husband; that’s evident. Four years! What were you thinking of? Madam, the account should never have run so long. You owed it. It’s been paid. The transaction is closed. We cannot give you back the money. What a ridiculous request!” The woman drew in her breath, shudderingly. “People must settle their obligations, you know,” pursued the man patting his fat leg. “That is the rule of business. If _I_ owed you anything I should pay it. If you owe me, you have to pay also. Such a demand as yours is absurd. Can’t you see that?” “I can see me an’ Enos turned out of our little home.” Martha’s voice was stony. “The money for that bill of mine was every penny we had. The rent’s got to be met before night. My husband’s an honest man—too honest to have any credit. I can see him growin’ old an’ gray in some shanty. I can see a poor half-witted girl cryin’ for the room she loves. These are the things I can see. Yes, sir, that’s the worst of it. Lucianna won’t understand——” “Eh!” interrupted the merchant sharply. “Who?” “Lucianna, sir. Not our own daughter, but most the same, poor thing. We’ve been glad to have her, an’ make her a home, an’ never minded the cost. She was so little when she came to us for shelter, smart an’ bright as anybody with her blue eyes an’ yellow hair, winnin’ us like she was our born baby. ’Twasn’t her fault she got queer. We wouldn’t put the child where she’d be abused again, so we kep’ her. Now, to root her out from comfort into the Lord knows what—I can’t bear to think of it. Me an’ Enos might get along somehow, but there’s Lucianna. I want that money back!” Martha’s tone became sharp as she remembered her errand. Tears had blinded her eyes during the rapid explanation, quite forgetful for the moment of all save the coming deprivations of her loved ones. Now, she winked them away to glare at the man in the chair. His ruddy face had gone to a dreadful whiteness. His hands were working. A strange sound came from the thick throat before he stammered feebly: “I—I—lost—a little girl. Her—this—one—do you know the last name?” “I’ve most forgot—she’s had ours for so long.” Martha began to tremble. “Let’s see? Yes. Say, it can’t be, your name is Crowson? That’s hers, Lucianna Crowson.” “My God!” the stout man sprang up. “It is! It is! Everything points to her being the same. It must be so.” He seized Martha’s hands with such vehemence that she recoiled with a startled, backward step. “Don’t act so crazy!” came her alarmed exclamation. “You let go an’ be careful. The blood’s clean to the top of your head. Set down an’ behave.” “Yes! Yes!” cried Crowson, releasing her, to pace the small room with a broken laugh and a fierce curse. “Wait! I’ll be myself in a minute. She’s my girl—I tell you. They wrote me she was dead—the people I left her with—after the child was cured. I’m her father, my dear woman. Don’t mind me, I’ll pull up directly. Wait!”