Herold flushed deeply. "It was your right to know--and my daughter's
right--before she broke her heart."
"I see. You naturally suppose that I would scarcely care to marry the
daughter of a----" He stopped short, and Herold set his teeth.
"Say it," he said, "and let this end matters for all of us. Except that
I have saved seven thousand dollars toward--what I took. I will draw you
a check for it now."
He walked steadily to the table, laid out a thin checkbook, and with his
fountain-pen wrote out a check for seven thousand dollars on a Norfolk
bank.
"There you are, Marche," he said wearily. "I made most of it buying and
selling pine timber in this district. It seemed a little like expiation,
too, working here for you, unknown to you. I won't stay, now, of course.
I'll try to pay back the rest--little by little--somehow."
"The way to pay it back," said Marche, "is to do the work you are fitted
for."