“That ain’t all,” said Andrew, with eyes like a beseeching dog’s on her face.

“I know that isn’t all,” said Ellen.  “You needn’t be afraid to tell me, father.  You have taken the money out of the savings-bank for something.”

Again Andrew would have snatched his hands from the girl’s and hidden his face, but she held them fast.  “Yes, I have,” he admitted, in a croaking voice.

“Well, what if you have?” asked Ellen.  “You had a right to take it out, didn’t you?  You put it in.  I don’t know of anybody who had a better right to take it out than you, if you wanted to.”

Andrew stared at her, as if he did not hear rightly.  “You don’t know what I did with it, Ellen,” he stammered.

“It is nobody’s business,” replied Ellen.  She had an unexplained sensation as if she were holding fast to her father’s slipping self-respect which was dragging hard at her restraining love.

“I put it in a worthless gold-mine out in Colorado—­the same one your uncle Jim lost his money in,” groaned Andrew.

“Well, it was your money, and you had a perfect right to,” said Ellen.  “Of course you thought the mine was all right or you wouldn’t have put the money into it.”

“God knows I did.”

“Well, the best business men in the world make mistakes.  It is nobody’s business whether you took the money out or not, or what you used it for, father.”

“I don’t see how the bills are going to be paid, and there’s your poor aunt,” said Andrew.  He was leaning more and more heavily upon this new tower of strength, this tender little girl whom he had hitherto shielded and supported.  The beautiful law of reverse of nature had come into force.

Ellen set her mouth firmly.  “Don’t you worry, father,” said she.  “We will think of some way out of it.  There’s a little money to pay for Aunt Eva, and maybe she won’t be sick long.  Does mother know, father?”

“She don’t know about anything, Ellen,” replied Andrew, wretchedly.

“I know she doesn’t know about your getting thrown out of work—­but about the bank?”

“No, Ellen.”

Ellen rose.  “You stay here, where it is cool, till I ring the dinner-bell, father,” she said.

“I don’t want any dinner, child.”

“Yes, you do, father.  If you don’t eat your dinner you will be sick.  You come when the bell rings.”

Andrew knew that he should obey, as he saw the girl’s light dress disappear among the trees.

Ellen went back to the pump, and carried her pitcher of water into the house.  Her mother met her at the door.  “Where have you been all this time, Ellen Brewster?” she asked, in a high voice.  “Everything is getting as cold as a stone.”

Ellen caught her mother’s arm and drew her into the kitchen, and closed the door.  Fanny turned pale as death and looked at her.  “Well, what has happened now?” she said.  “Is your father killed?”