CHAPTER XII.

A TERRIBLE SITUATION.

While Dollie was getting her machine in shape her sister composed the following letter.

“Mr. Matthew Jenkins, Poor Farm, Hickorytown, Conn.

“Dear Sir—A boy about sixteen was recently run over by a cable car in this city and killed. As he was unidentified within the regular time allowed by the city, he has been buried in Potter’s Field, the same as any other pauper. I have seen the garments left by the deceased and recognized them as belonging to one of your truant boys, one Bert Jackson, who was in my employ a few days after his arrival in this city. Knowing that the boy was your charge, I write this letter. It should relieve you of all anxiety regarding him in future.”

She signed the letter “John Johnson,” but appended no address. They could think whatever they pleased about the omission, it would make no difference in Matt Jenkins’ actions in the matter.

“He’ll be tickled to death,” said Dollie, grimly. “He’ll just be glad he is dead and that’s the last he’ll ever think of him.”

“And that is exactly what I want,” said Marion, laughing, “for as soon as they think he is dead, they’ll stop looking for him.”

“You are the cleverest girl in the world,” said Dollie, as she addressed the envelope.

She had become quite proficient now on her typewriter.

“I wish I was clever enough to get work,” was her sister’s answer as she inserted some newspaper clippings about the dead boy in the envelope, “but I shall very soon, for I am getting desperate.”

As the girls were planning what to do next Mrs. Haley came in. She was as pleasant as usual, but Marion could see that something was troubling her. After kissing the girls tenderly, she sat down by Dollie, who was not quite well yet, but slowly convalescing.

Marion had felt a little embarrassed in Mrs. Haley’s company of late, for she knew that her friend must wonder where she got her money to go on paying her rent and to employ a physician for Dollie.

But her promise to Ralph had been sacredly kept, and Mrs. Haley was far too courteous to ask any questions.

To-day even Dollie felt a little ill at ease, for Mrs. Haley, in spite of her kindness, did not look exactly natural.

“What is troubling you, Mrs. Haley?” asked Marion, at last. “You look so worried and pale. Has anything happened?”

Mrs. Haley tried to smile, but the effort was pitiful.

“There has, indeed,” she said sadly, “and I feel that I must tell it, although I dread to shock Dollie, when she has so little strength, the poor dear.”

“Tell it at once, Mrs. Haley. I can hear it,” cried Dollie, quickly. “Has anything happened to Ralph? Do hurry and tell us.”

Mrs. Haley took the young girl’s hand and patted it as she spoke.

“It may not be so serious, after all,” she said, more brightly, “but you know my nephew is living with me at present and, well, about three weeks ago an old family heirloom, a diamond, was stolen from the flat, and as Ralph and my husband were the only ones who knew exactly where I kept the stone, it was perhaps not unnatural that I should suspect him. Of course I put the question to him plainly, but for some reason or other he refuses to answer it. Since that time I have been at a loss to know what to do. We are trying to trace the jewel, but so far we have not been able to find it.”

For a moment after she stopped talking there was not a sound in the room except the ticking of the clock, which was painfully in evidence.

The face of Ralph Moore’s betrothed was like the driven snow when she turned toward her sister, but one look at Marion gave her the strength to recover.

Marion sat like a statue, her face as pale as death, but with a smile wreathing her lips that spoke of heroic resolution.

“He will prove himself innocent, I am sure of it,” she said firmly. “It is dreadful for us all, but Ralph is sure to be vindicated. Please believe me, Mrs. Haley, I have absolute faith in him.”

“Yes, indeed,” murmured Dollie, in a fainter voice. She had not the strength to be as firm and determined as her sister.

“I thought you would feel that way,” said Mrs. Haley, sadly. “God grant that you may be right, but as he has asked Dollie to marry him, I felt that she ought to know it.”

“Certainly,” said Marion, still in her calm, clear voice. “And I think she will cling to him even more closely in his trouble, for I am sure Ralph would never do a dishonest deed. There must be a mistake. Oh, I am almost sure of it.”

“I have tried hard to think so, for he is my sister’s child,” said Mrs. Haley, sadly. “Oh, the suspicion is dreadful. I wish I could overcome it.”

As soon as their visitor was gone, poor little Dollie burst out crying.

“Oh, Marion, he took it,” she whispered, faintly. “He stole it for us when I was sick and we had no money.”

“It is dreadful,” said Marion, in a broken voice. “Oh, why couldn’t he see that it was better for us to starve. Poor Ralph, I forgive him, but, oh, I wish he hadn’t done it. And to think we have promised to say nothing about it.”

Dollie grew so sick after this that Marion was terribly alarmed. A chill came on, followed by a raging fever.

Marion looked in her purse. There was just three dollars left. Without the slightest hesitation she ran for a doctor.

That night when Dollie was more quiet she went out for a short walk. She felt that she must be alone where she could think over the situation.

That hundred dollars must be earned and returned to Ralph. She clenched her hands together as she came to this decision. As she turned a corner she saw a group of people just before her all standing around a man who appeared to be a street preacher.

As Marion came nearer she recognized Mr. Haley’s voice. He was talking earnestly and sensibly in his eloquent manner.

At the close of his exhortation he started a hymn. It was an old familiar air that Marion had known all her life, and in an instant it took her back to her home in the country. For just one brief minute the old farm rose up before her. Then came a vision of Silas Johnson turning the old people out and then she thought suddenly of Dollie and her own utter helplessness.

A wave of emotion swept through every fibre of her body.

She must give vent to her sorrow or go mad with grief.

Before she knew it her lips were opened and she joined heart and soul in the singing.