from further speech, and stood at the end of the desk in the halo of
light from the lamp, and there was a tense stillness in the room which
rendered every outward sound more distinct. The voice of a boy driving
mules to their stable and singing as he went, the clank and jingle of
the chain tugs across the animals' backs, and the ceaseless monotone
of the mill, all came through the open windows, and assailed their
ears in that pent moment.

"Please let me have my way," Joan said, turning to Dick, and in her
voice was infinite sorrow and tragedy. "It is more my affair than
yours now. Father, I shall not permit you to go any farther. It is
useless. I know! I can't do it! I can't keep the money you gave me. It
isn't mine! It is theirs! You say you will not pay. Well, then, I
shall, to the last dollar!"

"But I shall accept nothing--not a cent--from you, if we never get a
penny from the Cross!" declared Dick, half-turning, as if to end the
interview.

She did not seem to hear him. She was still facing the hard, twisting
face of Bully Presby, who had suddenly drawn back, as if confronted
by a greater spirit than his own. She went on speaking to him as if
Dick was not in the room.

"You stole their ore. You know you stole it. Somehow, it all hurts so
that I cannot put it in words; for, Dad, I have loved you so much--so
much! Oh, Dad! Dad! Dad!"

She dropped to her knees, as if collapsed, to the outer edge of the
desk, and her head fell forward on her hands. The unutterable wail of
her voice as she broke, betrayed the desperate grief of her heart, the
destruction of an idol. It was as if she told the man across the desk
that he had been her ideal, and that his actions had brought this ruin
about them; as if all the sorrows of the world had cumulated in that
ruin of faith.

Dick looked down at her, and his nails bit into his palms as he fought
off his desire to reach down and lift her to his arms. Bully Presby's
chair went clashing back against the wall, where he kicked it as he
leaped to his feet. He ran around the end of the desk, throwing Dick
aside as he did so with one fierce sweep of his arm.

"Joan!" he said brokenly, laying his hand on her head. "Joan! My
little Joan! Get up, girl, and come here to your Dad!"

She did not move. The excess of her grief was betrayed by her bent
head and quivering shoulders. The light, gleaming above her, threw
stray shadows into the depths of her hair, and softened the white,
s