“Suppose it was me, wouldn’t you take it?” asked Aunt Kipp, blandly, for the new fancy pleased her. “No, thank you, ma’am,” said Van, decidedly. “And why not, pray?” cried the old lady, with a shrillness that made him jump, and Toady back to the door precipitately. “Because, if you’ll excuse my speaking plainly, I think you owe anything you may have to spare to your niece, Mrs. Snow;” and, having freed his mind, Van joined Toady, ready to fly if necessary. “You’re an idiot, sir,” began Aunt Kipp, in a rage again. “Thank you, ma’am.” And Van actually laughed and bowed in return for the compliment. “Hold your tongue, sir,” snapped the old lady. “You’re a fool and Sophy is another. She’s no strength of mind, no sense about anything; and would make ducks and drakes of my money in less than no time if I gave it to her, as I’ve thought of doing.” “Mrs. Kipp, you forget who you are speaking to. Mrs. Snow’s sons love and respect her if you don’t, and they won’t hear anything untrue or unkind said of a good woman, a devoted mother, and an almost friendless widow.” Van wasn’t a dignified man at all, but as he said that with a sudden flash of his mild eyes, there was something in his face and manner that daunted Aunt Kipp more than the small fist belligerently shaken at her from behind the sofa. The poor old soul was cross, and worried, and ashamed of herself, and being as feeble-minded as Sophy in many respects, she suddenly burst into tears, and, covering her face with the gay handkerchief, cried as if bent on floating the red ship in a sea of salt water without delay. “I’m a poor, lonely, abused old woman,” she moaned, with a green monkey at each eye. “No one loves me, or minds me, or thanks me when I want to help ’em. My money’s only a worryment and a burden, and I don’t know what to do with it, for people I don’t want to leave it to ought to have it, and people I do like won’t take it. Oh, deary me, what _shall_ I do! what shall I do!” “Shall I tell you, ma’am?” asked Van, gently, for, though she was a very provoking old lady, he pitied and wished to help her. A nod and a gurgle seemed to give consent, and, boldly advancing, Van said, with blush and a stammer, but a very hearty voice,— “I think, ma’am, if you’d do the right thing with your money you’d be at ease and find it saved a deal of worry all round. Give it to Mrs. Snow; she deserves it, poor lady, for she’s had a hard time, and done her duty faithfully. Don’t wait till you are—that is, till you—well, till you in point of fact die, ma’am. Give it now, and enjoy the happiness it will make. Give it kindly, let them see you’re glad to do it, and I am sure you’ll find them grateful; I’m sure you won’t be lonely any more, or feel that you are not loved and thanked. Try it, ma’am, just try it,” cried Van, getting excited by the picture he drew. “And I give you my word I’ll do my best to respect and love you like a son, ma’am.”