“I am going to tell you just how the matter stands,” she resumed presently: “and then you must excuse papa as best you can. You doubtless have heard that Uncle Richard was paralyzed—he had no use of either his hands or his feet, and was entirely helpless, although his mind was clear until just before his second shock, which came suddenly in the night. He told me the day before that he knew he could not live, and gave me directions just what to do. He said if he could only use his hands, he would have added a codicil to his will in your favor, but as it was, I must attend to his wishes. He said it—the will—had been made many years ago, giving everything to me; but ever since he became interested in you he had intended doing something handsome for you; if he had lived and you wished it, he would have wanted you to go back to him as a partner in his business, as soon as you should be free to do so. But he charged me—_made me promise_—to make over to you ten thousand dollars as soon as your time expired. “He left a large fortune, more than I shall ever know what to do with, and I was _so glad_ of this bequest to you,” Editha went on, heartily. “I asked Mr. Felton to see that everything was done properly, so that you could have the money at once. He did so, and I wanted you to have it as a sort of Christmas gift; but, Earle, I am not twenty-one yet; papa is still my natural guardian.” “Well?” Earle said, encouragingly, as she stopped in distress, and he pitied her for having to make this confession to him, while a tender smile wreathed his lips at her truthfulness and her sorrow on his account. “So there is no way—you will have to wait a little while for your money. I shall be twenty-one the twentieth of next November, and my own mistress; and, Earle, you shall have it then, with the year’s interest added.” He nearly laughed to see how eager she was for him to have exactly his due; then he grew suddenly grave, and said, gently but firmly: “No, Editha, I do not wish, I cannot take _one dollar_ of this money.” “But it was Uncle Richard’s dying wish and bequest to you—it _belongs_ to you by _right_,” she pleaded, bitterly disappointed by his refusal to take it. “No, by your uncle’s will, which he did not any way change, it all belongs to you.” “But he would have changed the will if he could have held a pen; he said so; and the money is not mine,” she cried, almost in tears. “The law would judge differently—your father is right. It should not come to me”—this was said with a touch of bitterness, however—“and I will not have one dollar of it.” “Supposing that you were in my place just now, and I in yours, would you claim that it all belonged to you?” she asked, lifting her searching glance to his face. “No,” he said; “but the difference in our positions, because I am _not_ in your place and you in mine, alters the case altogether.”