``It wasn't so bad as it looked,'' continued her father. He was
speaking in the quiet voice--quiet and old and sad--he always
used when seated before the picture.

``You see, Jenny, in them days''--also, in presence of the
picture he lapsed completely into the dialect of his youth--``in
them days the railroad was teetering and I couldn't tell which
way things'd jump. Every cent counted.''

``I understand perfectly, father,'' said Jane, her hands on his
shoulders from behind. She felt immensely relieved. She did not
realize that every doer of a mean act always has an excellent
excuse for it.

``Then afterwards,'' the old man went on, ``the family was
getting along so well--the boy was working steady and making good
money and pushing ahead--and I was afeared I'd do harm instead of
good. It's mighty dangerous, Jen, to give money sudden to folks
that ain't used to it. I've seen many a smash-up come that way.
And your ma--she thought so, too--kind of.''

The ``kind of'' was advanced hesitatingly, with an apologetic
side glance at the big crayon portrait. But Jane was entirely
convinced. She was average human; therefore, she believed what
she wished to believe.

``You were quite right, father,'' said she. ``I knew you
couldn't do a bad thing--wouldn't deliberately strike at weak,
helpless people. And now, it can be straightened out and the