“Of course there’s that danger. One must risk something.” “And is she sure to get money when this—what is it—her cousin—dies?” “She’ll get five and twenty thousand pounds. I have seen his will, so I know it’s true.” “Does she know herself?” “No”—and he laughed a little short laugh. Aunt Anne, listening and shuddering, remembered, oddly, that she had hardly ever heard him laugh in her life before. “But how did you manage to see the will?” “I told you before, Caroline, I saw it in my uncle’s office; so there is no mistake about it, if that is what you mean.” Aunt Anne nodded her weary head to herself. “William Rammage is right,” she thought; “he is justified. I might have known that at least he would not deceive me.” “And has she left it all to you, Alfred?” the girl’s voice—for it was a girl’s voice—asked. “Every penny. I took good care of that; and I’ll take good care she doesn’t alter it, too.” “But when do you think she’ll get it?” “As soon as this cousin of hers dies. He has been dying these ever so many months,” Alfred Wimple said discontentedly; “only he’s so long about it.” “But she won’t give it to you right away when she has got it herself. You’ll have to wait till she dies.” “I don’t think she’ll live long,” he said grimly; “I’m half afraid, sometimes, that she won’t last as long as he will, unless he makes haste.” “We’ll have good times, Alfred, once we’ve got our money?” “Yes, we will,” he answered with determination. “You mustn’t think that I care only for the money,” the girl went on; “it’s your being away that I care about most.” “I care about money; I want money, Caroline. I don’t like being poor.” “You see, I have always been poor, and don’t mind so much.” “You won’t be poor by-and-by, when the old woman is dead. I hope she’ll be quicker than her cousin over it, for I can’t stand it much longer.” “Isn’t she kind to you?” “I suppose she means to be kind,” he said gratingly. “But she whines about me so, and is always wanting to kiss me”—and he made a harsh sound in his throat. “I can’t bear being kissed by an old woman.” “It doesn’t matter when she is your aunt; it isn’t as if you were married to her. Wouldn’t it be awful to be married to an old woman?” “Ugh! I think I should kill her, Caroline. Let’s talk about something else.” “Let’s say all we’ll do when we get our money, Alfred dear,” the girl said in a wheedling voice. “I am glad of this rain, for we can’t go back till it leaves off a bit; let’s say all we’ll do when we get her money.” “I believe you care more about her money than you do about me,” he said, in the grumbling voice Aunt Anne knew well. “No, you don’t”—and she laughed a little; “you don’t think that a bit. I am fonder of you than the day I was married.” “You were fond enough then,” he said almost tenderly; “I remember seeing you kiss your wedding-gown as you sat and stitched at it the night before.” “I thought I’d never get it done in time.”