more tenderness. But he did nothing of
the kind. He did not seem to think he had
done wrong in any way, though I feel that
some way we might have saved you. I am
back here in Chicago in the old home. But
I shall not stay in this house. It is so large
and lonesome, and I always see you and
father facing each other angrily there in the
parlor when I enter it. So I am going to
get me some cosey rooms in another part of
the city, and take my aunt, who is a sweet
old lady, to live with me; and I am going
to devote my time -- all of it -- and all of my
brains to getting you out of that terrible
place. What is the use of telling me that
you are a murderer? Do I not know you
could not be brought to hurt anything?
I suppose you must have killed that poor
man, but then it was not you, it was that
dreadful drink -- it was Me! That is what
continually haunts me. If I had been a
braver girl, and spoken the words that were
in my heart, you would not have gone into
that place. You would be innocent to-day.
It was I who was responsible for it all. I
let father kill your heart right there before
me, and never said a word. Yet I knew
how it was with you, and -- this is what I
ought to have said then, and what I must
say now -- and all the time I felt just as