“I was never allowed to mention father to anyone,” she went on.  “My aunt was always pointing out what a terrible thing it would be for any one to find out—­who I was.  She didn’t want me to know; but uncle insisted.  I think he was sorry for—­father....  Oh, you don’t know what it is like to be in prison for years—­to have all the manhood squeezed out of one, drop by drop!  I think if it hadn’t been for me he would have died long ago.  I used to pretend I was very gay and happy when I went to see him.  He wanted me to be like that.  It pleased him to think my life had not been clouded by what he called his mistake....  He didn’t intend to wreck the bank, Mr. Dodge.  He thought he was going to make the village rich and prosperous.”

She leaned forward.  “I have learned to smile during all these years.  But now, I want to tell everybody—­I long to be free from pretending!  Can’t you see?”

Something big and round in his throat hurt him so that he could not answer at once.  He clenched his hands, enraged by the futility of his pity for her.

“Mrs. Daggett seems a kind soul,” she murmured.  “She would be my friend.  I am sure of it.  But—­the others—­”

She sighed.

“I used to fancy how they would all come to the station to meet him—­after I had paid everybody, I mean—­how they would crowd about him and take his hand and tell him they were glad it was all over; then I would bring him home, and he would never even guess it had stood desolate during all these years.  He has forgotten so much already; but he remembers home—­oh, quite perfectly.  I went to see him last week, and he spoke of the gardens and orchards.  That is how I knew how to have things planted:  he told me.”

He got hastily to his feet:  her look, her voice—­the useless smart of it all was swiftly growing unbearable.

“You must wait—­I must think!” he said unsteadily.  “You ought not to have told me.”

“Do you think I should have told the minister, instead?” she asked rather piteously.  “He has been very kind; but somehow—­”

“What!  Wesley Elliot?”

His face darkened.

“Thank heaven you did not tell him!  I am at least no—­”

He checked himself with an effort.

“See here,” he said:  “You—­you mustn’t speak to any one of what you have told me—­not for the present, anyway.  I want you to promise me.”

Her slight figure sagged wearily against the back of her chair.  She was looking up at him like a child spent with an unavailing passion of grief.

“I have promised that so many times,” she murmured:  “I have concealed everything so long—­it will be easier for me.”

“It will be easier for you,” he agreed quickly; “and—­perhaps better, on the whole.”

“But they will not know they are being paid—­they won’t understand—­”

“That makes no difference,” he decided.  “It would make them, perhaps, less contented to know where the money was coming from.  Tell me, does your servant—­this woman you brought from Boston; does she know?”