It was marvelous what an ineffable charm there was in the subtle mixture of courtesy and simplicity in Draxy’s manner.

“I am going directly by his house myself, and will show you,” replied the old gentleman.  “Pray let me take your bag, Miss.”

“Was it for you,” he added, suddenly recollecting the strange stopping of the express train, “was it for you the express train stopped just now?”

“Yes, sir,” said Draxy.  “The conductor very kindly put me off.”

The old gentleman’s curiosity was strongly roused, but he forbore asking any further questions until he left Draxy on the steps of the house, when he said:  “are they expecting you?”

“Oh no, sir,” said Draxy quietly.  “I do not know them.”

“Most extraordinary thing,” muttered the old gentleman as he walked on.  He was a lawyer, and could not escape from the professional habit of looking upon all uncommon incidents as clews.

Draxy Miller’s heart beat faster than usual as she was shown into Stephen Potter’s library.  She had said to the servant simply, “Tell Mr. Potter that Miss Miller would like to see him alone.”

The grandeur of the house, the richness of the furniture, would have embarrassed her, except that it made her stern as she thought of her father’s poverty.  “How little a sum it must be to this man,” she thought.

The name roused no associations in Stephen Potter; for years the thought of Reuben Miller had not crossed his mind, and as he looked in the face of the tall, beautiful girl who rose as he entered the room, he was utterly confounded to hear her say,—­

“I am Reuben Miller’s daughter.  I have come to see if you will pay me the money you owe him.  We are very poor, and need it more than you probably can conceive.”

Stephen Potter was a bad man, but not a hard-hearted bad man.  He had been dishonest always; but it was the dishonesty of a weak and unscrupulous nature, not without generosity.  At that moment a sharp pang seized him.  He remembered the simple, upright, kindly face of Reuben Miller.  He saw the same look of simple uprightness, kindled by strength, in the beautiful face of Reuben Miller’s daughter.  He did not know what to say.  Draxy waited in perfect composure and silence.  It seemed to him hours before he spoke.  Then he said, in a miserable, shuffling way,—­

“I suppose you think me a rich man.”

“I think you must be very rich,” said Draxy, gently.

Then, moved by some strange impulse in the presence of this pure, unworldly girl, Stephen Potter suddenly spoke out, for the first time since his boyhood, with absolute sincerity.

“Miss Miller, you are your father over again.  I reverenced your father.  I have wronged many men without caring, but it troubled me to wrong him.  I would give you that money to-night, if I had it, or could raise it.  I am not a rich man.  I have not a dollar in the world.  This house is not mine.  It may be sold over my head any day.  I am deep in trouble, but not so deep as I deserve to be,” and he buried his face in his hands.