But tonight the childish side of Erica was in abeyance; the cares
of womanhood seemed gathering upon her. She put out her candle and
sat down in the dark, racking her brain for some plan by which to
relieve her father and mother. Their life was growing harder and
harder. It seemed to her that poverty in itself was bearable
enough, but that the ever-increasing load of debt was not bearable.
As long as she could remember, it had always been like a mill-stone
tied about their necks, and the ceaseless petty economies and
privations seemed of little avail; she felt very much as if she
were one of the Danaids, doomed forever to pour water into a vessel
with a hole in it.

Yet in one sense she was better off than many, for these debts were
not selfish debts--no one had ever known Raeburn to spend an
unnecessary sixpence on himself; all this load had been incurred in
the defense of what he considered the truth--by his unceasing
struggles for liberty. She was proud of the debts, proud to suffer
in what she regarded as the sacred cause; but in spite of that she
was almost in despair this evening, the future looked so hopelessly
black.

Tom's words rang in her head--"The chieftain will try to do the
work of ten men!" What if he overworked himself as he had done
once a few years ago? What if he died in the attempt? She wished
Tom had not spoken so strongly. In the friendly darkness she did
not try to check the tears which would come into her eyes at the
thought. Something must be done! She must in some way help him!
And then, all at once, there flashed into her mind M. Noirol's
teasing suggestion that she should go to Paris. Here was a way in
which, free of all expense, she might finish her education, might