through which I could earn enough to put papa into an institution, such as I have read of, and give you a home worthy of the name.  But I cannot.  I can only do what thousands of others can do, and take my chances with them in getting work.  And now I seem so broken down in body and soul that I feel as if I could never work again.  There seems to be one way, mamma, in which I can help you.”  And then she hesitated, and a deep, burning flush crimsoned the face that was so pale before.  “Well,” she said, at last, in a kind of desperation, “I might as well speak plainly, if I speak at all.  It’s no secret to you how Roger Atwood feels toward me, and also, mamma, you know my heart.  While I could kiss his hand in gratitude, while I would not shrink from any suffering for his sake, to show how deeply I appreciate the priceless service he has rendered me, still, mamma, mamma, I’m only a woman, and am cursed with all the perversity of a woman’s heart.  Oh, what a loyal friend, what a devoted sister I could be to him!  Mamma, can’t you understand me?”

“Yes, Millie,” sadly answered her mother.

“Well, mamma, I’m so perplexed.  It seems for his sake, since we have become so poor and disgraced, that I ought to refuse his suit.  To the world, and especially to his friends, it will appear dreadfully selfish that we should link our wretched fortunes to his, and so cloud his prospects and impede his progress.  I can’t tell you how I dread such criticism.  And yet, mamma, you know—­no, mamma, even you cannot understand how great would be my self-sacrifice, when to others it will appear that I am only too glad to cling to one who gives some promise of better days.  But the turning point has now come.  Hitherto my manner toward Mr. Atwood has been unmistakable, and he has understood me; and were he obtuseness itself he could not fail to understand me.  But after what has happened I cannot treat him so any longer.  It would be shameful ingratitude.  Indeed, in my cell last night I almost vowed that if he would prove me innocent—­if he would save you and Belle and the children, I would make any sacrifice that he would ask.  If I feel this way he will know it, for he almost reads my thoughts, he is so quick, and his feeling for me is so deep.  And yet, mamma, now that I have thought more I fear that in sacrificing my own heart I am also sacrificing him.  His friends will think so, at least.  He is so young, chivalric, and unworldly that he may think it a noble thing to help us fight out our battle; but will he think so in coming years?  Will he think so if the struggle is long and hard?  Will he think so if we impede and retard him?  Alas, will he think so if he finds that I can give him only gratitude and respect?  Oh, mamma, I am so perplexed.  I don’t want to wrong him; I can’t see you suffer on hopelessly and helplessly, and therefore it seems I ought to give him the right to help us should he seek for it, as I feel sure he will if I show any relenting.  We could not be married for