Draxy believed him.  And it was true.  At that moment Stephen Potter was really a ruined man, and many others were involved in the ruin which was impending.

Draxy rose, saying gravely, “I am very sorry for you, Mr. Potter.  We heard that you were rich, or I should not have come.  We are very poor, but we are not unhappy, as you are.”

“Stay, Miss Miller, sit down; I have a thing which might be of value to your father;” and Mr. Potter opened his safe and took out a bundle of old yellow papers.  “Here is the title to a lot of land in the northern part of New Hampshire.  I took it on a debt years ago, and never thought it was worth anything.  Very likely it has run out, or the town has taken possession of the land for the taxes.  But I did think the other day, that if worst came to worst, I might take my wife up there and try to farm it.  But I’d rather your father should have it if it’s good for anything.  I took it for three thousand dollars, and it ought to be worth something.  I will have the legal transfer made in the morning, and give it to you before you leave.”

This was not very intelligible to Draxy.  The thin and tattered old paper looked singularly worthless to her.  But rising again, she said simply as before, “I am very sorry for you, Mr. Potter; and I thank you for trying to pay us!  Will you let some one go and show me to the hotel where I ought to sleep?”

Stephen Potter was embarrassed.  It cut him to the heart to send this daughter of Reuben Miller’s out of his house to pass the night.  But he feared Mrs. Potter very much.  He hesitated only a moment.

“No, Miss Miller.  You must sleep here.  I will have you shown to your room at once.  I do not ask you to see my wife.  It would not be pleasant for you to do so.”  And he rang the bell.  When the servant came, he said,—­

“William, have a fire kindled in the blue room at once; as soon as it is done, come and let me know.”

Then he sat down near Draxy and asked many questions about her family, all of which she answered with childlike candor.  She felt a strange sympathy for this miserable, stricken, wicked man.  When she bade him good-night, she said again, “I am very sorry for you, Mr. Potter.  My father would be glad if he could help you in any way.”

Stephen Potter went into the parlor where his wife sat, reading a novel.  She was a very silly, frivolous woman, and she cared nothing for her husband, but when she saw his face she exclaimed, in terror, “What was it, Stephen?”

“Only Reuben Miller’s daughter, come two days’ journey after some money I owe her father and cannot pay,” said Stephen, bitterly.

“Miller?  Miller?” said Mrs. Potter, “one of those old canal debts?”

“Yes,” said Stephen.

“Well, of course all those are outlawed long ago,” said she.  “I don’t see why you need worry about that; she can’t touch you.”

Stephen looked scornfully at her.  She had a worse heart than he.  At that moment Draxy’s face and voice, “I am very sorry for you, Mr. Potter,” stood out in the very air before him.