“No, it’s not, Jack! I’ve thought of that, because I knew you’d say it. It’s so like you. It’s not at all the same. You might as well say that it was originally intended that you should never have the money at all, even after I died. It was and is mine, for me and my children. As I have only one child, it’s yours and mine jointly. As long as you were a boy, it was my business to look after your share of it for you. As soon as you were a man, I should have given you your share of it. It would have been much better, though there was no provision in either of the wills. If it had been a fortune, I should have done it anyhow, but as it was only enough for us two to live on, I kept it together and was as careful of it as I could be.” “Mother--I don’t want you to do this,” said John. “I don’t like this sordid financial way of looking at it--I tell you so quite frankly.” Mrs. Ralston was silent for a few moments, and seemed to be thinking the matter over. “I don’t like it either, Jack,” she said at last. “It isn’t like us. So I won’t say anything more about it. I’ll just go and do it, and then it will be off my mind.” “Please don’t!” cried Ralston, bending forward, for she made as though she would rise from her seat. “I must,” she answered. “It’s the only possible basis of any future existence for us. You shall live with me from choice, if you like. It will--well, never mind--my happiness is not the question! But you shall not live with me as a matter of necessity in a position of dependence. The money is just as much yours as it’s mine. You shall have your share, and--” “I’d rather go to sea--as you said,” interrupted John. “And let your income accumulate. Very well. But I--I hope you won’t, dear. It would be lonely. It wouldn’t make any difference so far as this is concerned. I should do it, whatever you did. As long as you like, live here, and pay your half of the expenses. I shall get on very well on my share if I’m all alone. Now I’m going, because there’s nothing more to be said.” Mrs. Ralston rose this time. John got up and stood beside her, and they both looked at the fire thoughtfully. “Mother--please--I entreat you not to do this thing!” said John, suddenly. “I’m a brute even to have thought twice of that silly affair last night--and to have said what I said just now, that I couldn’t exactly feel as though anything could undo what had been done. Indeed--if there’s anything to forgive, it’s forgiven with all my heart, and we’ll forget it and live just as we always have. We can, if we choose. How could you help it--the way I looked! I saw myself in the glass. Upon my word, if I’d drunk ever so little, I should have been quite ready to believe that I was tipsy, from my own appearance--it was natural, I’m sure, and--”