“You must be right,” he said at length.  “I should have known that I’d be no good in business.  Why, I haven’t even brains enough to comprehend.  I know that you, sir, are the soul of honor, and yet you tell me that you knew of that investment.  I’m a failure—­I’m just no good, that’s all.  I’ll go back to Pittsburgh and tell the pater what a chance you gave me, and what a mess I made of it.  Then I’ll ask him to let me strip down as his other workmen do, and go into the furnaces where I belong.  Good-night and—­good-bye.”

As the conversation developed into so serious a situation, Alice and Eleanor watched the two men, astonished at the nature of the disagreement, and filled with apprehension.  Mrs. Gorham had grown more fond of the boy than she realized until this moment, and she actually suffered for him.  Alice was running the gamut of her emotions, her sensations changing every moment, affected by each sentence which she heard torn from the very soul of each speaker.  As Allen rose after his final acceptance of his dismissal, she rose with him, a curious mixture of uncertainty and lack of understanding combining in her expression.

“I don’t believe you do know about that stock, daddy,” she said, quietly.  “Before Allen goes perhaps—­”

“I know all about it, Alice,” her father replied, impatiently.  “Allen has no right to meddle in my personal affairs, and I resent it.  Don’t interfere, little girl—­leave this to me.”

The color left her face, and she seemed to grow to mature years in the instant.  Allen started to leave, but was held spellbound by the force exercised by the quiet, firm dignity which became at once the dominating factor.

“You are wrong, daddy,” she said, with a new note in her voice which all recognized instinctively.  “For the first time in my life, I tell you, you are wrong.”

“Leave this to me, Alice,” Gorham repeated, sternly, but the girl did not heed him.

“Since I have been sitting here I have learned a lot, and I know that Allen is right.  There are things which I have kept from you, and now I know that I should have told you all about them.  Now I know that the advice I received was wrong—­and it is all reacting upon Allen and upon you.”

“Is there no way—­” Gorham began, thoroughly exasperated.

“Be patient, Robert,” begged Eleanor.

“Don’t, Alice,” Allen protested; “it’s mighty white of you, but it only makes matters worse.  I’m going now—­”

“Not until I tell you that I’ve been unfair to you too,” she cried.  “I’ve made fun of you and been horrid to you, but I believe I’ve loved you all the time.”

“Alice!” the boy exclaimed.

“You are forgetting your duty to Mr. Covington, as you have already forgotten your duty to me,” her father expostulated, severely.

“She doesn’t mean it, Mr. Gorham—­please don’t blame her; it’s all my fault.”

“I do mean it, Allen.  I haven’t known my own heart till now.”