ing attracted in the beginning, I think, by the name. "They call
you Comfort Paine," she said, "and you are a comfort to everybody else's
pain. Yet you ain't out of pain a minute scurcely, yourself. I never see
anything like it. If 'twan't wicked I'd say that name was give you by
the Old Scratch himself, as a sort of divilish joke. But anybody can see
that the Old Scratch never had anything in common with you, even a hand
in the christenin'."

Dorinda was very kind, and Lute was a never-ending joy in his peculiar
way. Mother would have been almost happy in the little Denboro home,
if I had been with her. But she was never really happy when we were
separated, a condition of mind which grew more acute as her health
declined. I came down from the city once every month and those Sundays
were great occasions. The Denboro people know me as Roscoe Paine.

For a time Mother seemed to be holding her own. In answer to my
questions she always declared that she was ever so much better. But
Doctor Quimby, the town physician, looked serious.

"She must be kept absolutely quiet," he said. "She must not be troubled
in any way. Worry or mental distress is what I fear most. Any sudden bad
news or shock might--well, goodness knows what effect it might have. She
must not be worried. Ros--" after one has visited Denboro five times in
succession he is generally called by his Christian name--"Ros, if you've
got any worries you keep 'em to yourself."

I had worries, plenty of them. Our little fortune, saved, as we thought,
from the wreck, suffered a severe shrinkage. A considerable portion
of it, as the lawyers discovered, was involved and belonged to the
creditors. I said nothing to Mother about this: she supposed that we
had a sufficient income for our needs, even without my salary. Without
telling her I gave up our city apartment, stored our furniture, and took
a room in a boarding-house. I was learning the banking business, was
trusted with more and more responsibility, and believed my future was
secure. Then came the final blow.

I saw the news in the paper when I went out to lunch. "Embezzler and His
Companion Caught in Rio Janeiro. He Commits Suicide When Notified of
His Arrest." These headlines stared at me as I opened the paper at the
restaurant table. My father had shot himself when the police came. I
read it with scarcely more than a vague feeling of pity for him. It was
of Mother that I thought. The news must be kept from her.