Why did the wretched father stop?  Did he recall the circumstances under which Frederick had obtained these last hundreds from him?  They were not ordinary circumstances, and Frederick had been in no ordinary strait.  Mr. Sutherland could not but acknowledge to himself that there was something in this whole matter which contradicted the very plea he was making, and not being able to establish the conviction of his son’s innocence in his own mind, he was too honourable to try to establish it in that of another.  His next words betrayed the depth of his struggle: 

“It is that girl who has ruined him, Sweetwater.  He loves but doubts her, as who could help doing after the story she told us day before yesterday?  Indeed, he has doubted her ever since that fatal night, and it is this which has broken his heart, and not—­ not—­” Again the old gentleman paused; again he recovered himself, this time with a touch of his usual dignity and self-command.  “Leave me,” he cried.  “Nothing that you have seen has escaped me; but our interpretations of it may differ.  I will watch over my son from this hour, and you may trust my vigilance.”

Sweetwater bowed.

“You have a right to command me,” said he.  “You may have forgotten, but I have not, that I owe my life to you.  Years ago—­ perhaps you can recall it—­it was at the Black Pond—­I was going down for the third time and my mother was screaming in terror on the bank, when you plunged in and—­Well, sir, such things are never forgotten, and, as I said before, you have only to command me.”  He turned to go, but suddenly came back.  There were signs of mental conflict in his face and voice.  “Mr. Sutherland, I am not a talkative man.  If I trust your vigilance you may trust my discretion.  Only I must have your word that you will convey no warning to your son.”

Mr. Sutherland made an indefinable gesture, and Sweetwater again disappeared, this time not to return.  As for Mr. Sutherland, he remained standing before Mr. Halliday’s door.  What had the young man meant by this emphatic repetition of his former suggestion?  That he would be quiet, also, and not speak of what he had seen?  Why, then—­But to the hope thus given, this honest-hearted gentleman would yield no quarter, and seeing a duty before him, a duty he dare not shirk, he brought his emotions, violent as they were, into complete and absolute subjection, and, opening Mr. Halliday’s door, entered the house.  They were old neighbours, and ceremony was ignored between them.

Finding the hall empty and the parlour door open he walked immediately into the latter room.  The sight that met his eyes never left his memory.  Agnes, his little Agnes, whom he had always loved and whom he had vainly longed to call by the endearing name of daughter, sat with her face towards him, looking up at Frederick.  That young gentleman had just spoken to her, or she had just received something from his hand for her own was held out and her expression