Her voice faltered a little.

"You mustn't tell them," he said vehemently. "You mustn't!"

He saw with terrible clearness what it would be like: the home-coming
of the half-imbecile criminal, and the staring eyes, the pointing
fingers of all Brookville leveled at him. She would be overborne by
the shame of it all--trampled like a flower in the mire.

She seemed faintly disappointed.

"But I would far rather tell," she persisted. "I have had so much to
conceal--all my life!"

She flung out her hands in a gesture of utter weariness.

"I was never allowed to mention father to anyone," she went on. "My
aunt was always pointing out what a terrible thing it would be for
any one to find out--who I was. She didn't want me to know; but uncle
insisted. I think he was sorry for--father.... Oh, you don't know
what it is like to be in prison for years--to have all the manhood
squeezed out of one, drop by drop! I think if it hadn't been for me
he would have died long ago. I used to pretend I was very gay and
happy when I went to see him. He wanted me to be like that. It
pleased him to think my life had not been clouded by what he called
his _mistake_.... He didn't intend to wreck the bank, Mr. Dodge. He
thought he was going to make the village rich and prosperous."

She leaned forward. "I have learned to smile during all these years.