LITMIR.BIZ

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been down in the City, trying to find you all day, uncle. I meet you—I might have missed! It is direction from heaven, for I prayed."

      Anthony muttered, "I'm out for a holiday."

      "This"—Rhoda pointed to a house—"is where I am lodging."

      "Oh!" said Anthony; "and how's your family?"

      Rhoda perceived that he was rather distraught. After great persuasion, she got him to go upstairs with her.

      "Only for two seconds," he stipulated. "I can't sit."

      "You will have a cup of tea with me, uncle?"

      "No; I don't think I'm equal to tea."

      "Not with Rhoda?"

      "It's a name in Scripture," said Anthony, and he drew nearer to her.

      "You're comfortable and dark here, my dear. How did you come here?

      What's happened? You won't surprise me."

      "I'm only stopping for a day or two in London, uncle."

      "Ah! a wicked place; that it is. No wickeder than other places, I'll be bound. Well; I must be trotting. I can't sit, I tell you. You're as dark here as a gaol."

      "Let me ring for candles, uncle."

      "No; I'm going."

      She tried to touch him, to draw him to a chair. The agile old man bounded away from her, and she had to pacify him submissively before he would consent to be seated. The tea-service was brought, and Rhoda made tea, and filled a cup for him. Anthony began to enjoy the repose of the room. But it made the money-bags' alien to him, and serpents in his bosom. Fretting—on his chair, he cried: "Well! well! what's to talk about? We can't drink tea and not talk!"

      Rhoda deliberated, and then said: "Uncle, I think you have always loved me."

      It seemed to him a merit that he should have loved her. He caught at the idea.

      "So I have, Rhoda, my dear; I have. I do."

      "You do love me, dear uncle!"

      "Now I come to think of it, Rhoda—my Dody, I don't think ever I've loved anybody else. Never loved e'er a young woman in my life. As a young man."

      "Tell me, uncle; are you not very rich?"

      "No, I ain't; not 'very'; not at all."

      "You must not tell untruths, uncle."

      "I don't," said Anthony; only, too doggedly to instil conviction.

      "I have always felt, uncle, that you love money too much. What is the value of money, except to give comfort, and help you to be a blessing to others in their trouble? Does not God lend it you for that purpose? It is most true! And if you make a store of it, it will only be unhappiness to yourself. Uncle, you love me. I am in great trouble for money."

      Anthony made a long arm over the projection of his coat, and clasped it securely; sullenly refusing to answer. "Dear uncle; hear me out. I come to you, because I know you are rich. I was on my way to your lodgings when we met; we were thrown together. You have more money than you know what to do with. I am a beggar to you for money. I have never asked before; I never shall ask again. Now I pray for your help. My life, and the life dearer to me than any other, depend on you. Will you help me, Uncle Anthony? Yes!"

      "No!" Anthony shouted.

      "Yes! yes!"

      "Yes, if I can. No, if I can't. And 'can't' it is. So, it's 'No.'"

      Rhoda's bosom sank, but only as a wave in the sea-like energy of her spirit.

      "Uncle, you must."

      Anthony was restrained from jumping up and running away forthwith by the peace which was in the room, and the dread of being solitary after he had tasted of companionship.

      "You have money, uncle. You are rich. You must help me. Don't you ever think what it is to be an old man, and no one to love you and be grateful to you? Why do you cross your arms so close?"

      Anthony denied that he crossed his arms closely.

      Rhoda pointed to his arms in evidence; and he snarled out: "There, now; 'cause I'm supposed to have saved a trifle, I ain't to sit as I like. It's downright too bad! It's shocking!"

      But, seeing that he did not uncross his arms, and remained bunched up defiantly, Rhoda silently observed him. She felt that money was in the room.

      "Don't let it be a curse to you," she said. And her voice was hoarse with agitation.

      "What?" Anthony asked. "What's a curse?"

      "That."

      Did she know? Had she guessed? Her finger was laid in a line at the bags. Had she smelt the gold?

      "It will be a curse to you, uncle. Death is coming. What's money then? Uncle, uncross your arms. You are afraid; you dare not. You carry it about; you have no confidence anywhere. It eats your heart. Look at me. I have nothing to conceal. Can you imitate me, and throw your hands out —so? Why, uncle, will you let me be ashamed of you? You have the money there.

      "You cannot deny it. Me crying to you for help! What have we talked together?—that we would sit in a country house, and I was to look to the flower-beds, and always have dishes of green peas for you-plenty, in June; and you were to let the village boys know what a tongue you have, if they made a clatter of their sticks along the garden-rails; and you were to drink your tea, looking on a green and the sunset. Uncle! Poor old, good old soul! You mean kindly. You must be kind. A day will make it too late. You have the money there. You get older and older every minute with trying to refuse me. You know that I can make you happy. I have the power, and I have the will. Help me, I say, in my great trouble. That money is a burden. You are forced to carry it about, for fear. You look guilty as you go running in the streets, because you fear everybody. Do good with it. Let it be money with a blessing on it! It will save us from horrid misery! from death! from torture and death! Think, uncle! look, uncle! You with the money—me wanting it. I pray to heaven, and I meet you, and you have it. Will you say that you refuse to give it, when I see—when I show you, you are led to meet me and help me? Open;—put down that arm."

      Against this storm of mingled supplication and shadowy menace, Anthony held out with all outward firmness until, when bidding him to put down his arm, she touched the arm commandingly, and it fell paralyzed.

      Rhoda's eyes were not beautiful as they fixed on the object of her quest. In this they were of the character of her mission. She was dealing with an evil thing, and had chosen to act according to her light, and by the counsel of her combative and forceful temper. At each step new difficulties had to be encountered by fresh contrivances; and money now— money alone had become the specific for present use. There was a limitation of her spiritual vision to aught save to money; and the money being bared to her eyes, a frightful gleam of eagerness shot from them. Her hands met Anthony's in a common grasp of the money-bags.

      "It's not mine!" Anthony cried, in desperation.

      "Whose money is it?" said Rhoda, and caught up her hands as from fire.

      "My Lord!" Anthony moaned, "if you don't speak like a Court o' Justice.

      Hear yourself!"

      "Is the money yours, uncle?"

      "It—is," and "isn't" hung in the balance.

      "It is not?" Rhoda dressed the question for him in the terror of contemptuous horror.

      "It is. I—of course it is; how could it help being mine? My money? Yes. What sort o' thing's that to ask—whether what I've got's mine or yours, or somebody else's? Ha!"

      "And you say you are not rich, uncle?"

      A charming congratulatory smile was addressed to him, and a shake of the head of tender reproach irresistible to his vanity.

      "Rich! with a lot o' calls on me; everybody wantin' to borrow—I'm rich! And now you coming to me! You women can't bring a guess to bear upon the right nature o' money."

      "Uncle, you will decide to help me, I know."

      She said it with a staggering assurance of manner.

      "How

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