“I did not forgive her, Mrs. Cleary,” he said in deliberate tones.  “I forgave her childish nature, remembering the way she had been educated; remembering, too, that I was twice her age.  Nor did I forget the poverty I had brought upon her.”

“And why not forgive her this?” She could hardly restrain a sob as she spoke.

His lips straightened and his brows narrowed.  “This is not due to her nature,” he answered coldly, “nor to her bringing up.  She has now committed a crime and is beyond reclaim.  Once a thief, always a thief.  I must stop somewhere.”

“But why not hear her story from her own lips?” she pleaded, her voice choking.  “You hear it—­not Father Cruse, nor me, nor anybody but you, who have loved her!”

Felix shook his head.  “It is kinder for me to stay away.  The very sight of me would kill her.”  His answer was final.

Kitty squared herself.  “I don’t believe it,” she cried, the tears now coursing down her cheeks.  “Oh, for the blessed God’s sake don’t say it—­take it back!  Listen to me, Mr. O’Day.  If she ever wanted a friend it’s now.  I’d go meself but I’d do no good—­ nor nothin’ I’d tell her would do her any good.  It’s a man she wants to lean on, not a woman.  I can almost lift my John off his feet with one hand, but when I get into trouble I’m just so much putty, runnin’ to him like a baby, weak as a rag, and he pattin’ my cheek same as if I was a three-year-old.  Go and get yer arms around her and tell her ye don’t believe a word of it, and that ye’ll stand by her to the end, and ye’ll make a good woman of her.  Turn yer back on her, and they’ll have her in potter’s field if she gets out of this scrape, for she can’t fight long—­she hasn’t got the strength.

“She could hardly get up-stairs the night I put her to bed—­she was that tremblin’, and she’s no better to-day.  Don’t let yer pride shut up yer heart, Mr. O’Day.  You are a gentleman and ye’ve lived like one, and ye’ve got your own and yer father’s name to keep clean, and that poor child has dragged it in the mud, and the papers will be full of it, and the disgrace of it all dries ye up, and ye can go no further, and so ye cut loose and let her sink.  No, don’t ye get angry with me—­if ye were my own John I’d tell ye the same.  Listen—­do ye hear them horns blowin’ and the children shoutin’?  It’s New Year’s Eve—­ to-morrow all the slates will be wiped clean—­the past rubbed out and everybody’ll have a new start.  Make a clean slate of yer own heart—­wipe out everything ye’ve got against that poor child.  Take her in yer arms once more—­help her come back!  If God didn’t clean His own slate once in a while and forgive us, none of us would ever get to heaven.  Hush!  Quiet now!  Somebody’s just come into the office.  I’ll not let any one in to disturb ye.  Stay where ye are till I see.  I hear a voice.  What!  Well, as I’m alive, it’s Father Cruse—­what’s he come for at this hour?  Shall I let him in?”