“But I never thought he was really ill, Harry,” said Marion; “I had no idea of it. At breakfast yesterday morning he seemed very well. He got several letters, and read them while he eat his breakfast.” “Could there have been anything in his letters to startle or annoy him?” suggested Harry. “No, I think not. I have them all here. Among them was one from young Mr. Baldwin—Geoffrey Baldwin, you remember, Harry?—saying that he would come to see him, as he wished, ‘to-morrow or Monday.’ Papa seemed pleased at this, and gave me the letter to read. He began to speak about Mr. Baldwin, and told him he had appointed him our guardian, or trustee, in his will. It surprised me a little his talking this way to me. He has generally been so reserved about these sort of things.” “He must have known he was very ill,” said Harry. “He said something to me about his will last Sunday. He told me that he wished to give a little more attention to his private affairs than he had found time for, for some years past. Indeed, Marion, I may be mistaken, but I have a sort of idea that though every one has seemed to consider my father a rich man, he was not really so. He has spent an immense deal of money on public matters one way and another. That contested election two years ago, and lots of subscriptions and things always going on. It’s always the way with ‘public men,’ they neglect their own affairs to look after everybody else’s. I hope I may be mistaken, but I have my fears that we shall not be rich by any means.” “I don’t care,” said Marion; “I would be just as miserable if we had millions. I don’t care for money. But I wish you would not talk about money, Harry. It seems too horrible—so soon—only yesterday!” “Don’t think me heartless, dear May,” said the boy. “For myself I truly don’t care. I could go to India. It was only for you. Did my father say nothing more to you?”