Carroll frowned.  “I did not have enough for that,” he said.  “It was impossible.  I paid the other bills.”

“All dressmakers have to be cheated,” said Anna.  “I never knew one that wasn’t.  I may as well reap the benefit of a universal law of cause and result, as some other woman.”  Her voice rang hard, but she looked up affectionately at her brother.  Suddenly she reached out her hand, caught his, and kissed it.  “There is one thing we Carrolls pay in full, and never run in debt for, and that is our affection for and belief in one another,” said she.  “We have our hearts full of one coin, anyway.”

“I suppose the world at large would prefer our pockets full of the coin of the realm,” answered Carroll, but he looked fondly down at his sister.

“I suppose so.  If I had not worn this dress, I should send it back to that dressmaker.”

“But you have worn it.”

“Oh yes.  Of course it is out of the question now.  It is very pretty.  Well, Arthur, if we go back far enough we are not responsible for this dress.  We are responsible for none of the disasters which follow in our wake.  That man down in Kentucky precipitated the whole thing.  Arthur, you do look like a fiend whenever I mention that man!”

“I feel like one,” Carroll replied, coolly.

“Well, that man was directly responsible for the whole wreck—­the general wreck, I mean.  My own wreck is an individual matter, and, after all, I never fairly lowered my sails for that especial gale.  I never will own to it.”

“You were a brave girl, Anna.”

“But the other wreck, the whole wreck, that man of yours is responsible for.  And we were not half a bad lot, Arthur.”

“Maybe not; but when the ship breaks up, it does not make so much difference what the timbers were, nor how she was built.”

“I suppose you are right.  Well, what is to be done with the old masts and sails and things?”

“I know what is to be done with a part of it.”

“What part of it?”

“Well, to depart from similes, the female contingency.”

“The female contingency?”

“Yes, and the juvenile.  You and Amy and Charlotte and Eddy.”

“What do you mean, Arthur?”

“You are going down to Kentucky to the old place, to spend the winter with Aunt Catherine.”

“Aunt Catherine wrote you?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“I got the letter day before yesterday.”

“She invited us?”

“Yes, honey.”

“Not you?”

“There was no reason why she should invite me.”

“Aunt Catherine never had any feeling for you.”

“Perhaps she has had as much as I deserve.  You know I have, to put it frankly, rather broken the record of an honorable family for—­”

“For what?”

“For honor, dear.”

Then Anna broke out, passionately.  “I don’t care!  I don’t care!” she cried.  “I don’t care what she thinks; I don’t care what anybody thinks!  I don’t care what you do or don’t do, you are the best man that ever lived, Arthur.”  She began to weep suddenly, feeling blindly for her handkerchief.