“Sam says she owes the family for fifty years’ maintenance: that is, £20,000, without counting out-of-pocket expenses, incidentals, and rent. How he makes it out I don’t know, because poor old granny doesn’t cost more than £30 a year, and I find that. Can’t he claim that money?” “Of course not. She owes him nothing. Your brother is not, I fear, quite a--a straight-walking Christian, is he?” She sighed. “He’s a Church member; but, then, he says it’s good for business. Mother sides with Sam. They are both at her every day. Oh, Mr. Campaigne, is it all Sam’s fancy? Will there be no money at all? When he finds it out, he’ll go off his head for sure.” “I don’t know. Don’t listen to him. Don’t think about the money.” “I must sometimes. It’s lovely to think about being rich, after you’ve been so poor. Why, sometimes we’ve had to go for days--we women--with a kippered herring or a bloater and a piece of bread for dinner. And as for clothes and gloves and nice things----” “But now you have an income, and you have your work. Those days are gone. Don’t dream of sudden wealth.” She got up. “I won’t think about it. It’s wicked to dream about being rich.” “What would you do with money if you had it?” “First of all, it would be so nice not to think about the rent and not to worry, when illness came into the house, how the Doctor was to be paid. And next, Sam would be always in a good temper.” “No,” said Leonard decidedly; “Sam would not always be in a good temper.” “Then I should take granny away, and leave mother and Sam.” “You would have to give up your work, you know--the school and the children and everything.” “Couldn’t I go on with the school?” “Certainly not.” “I shouldn’t like that. Oh, I couldn’t give up the school and the children!” “Well--but what would you buy?” “Books--I should buy books.” “You can get them at the Free Library for nothing. Do you want fine clothes?” “Every woman likes to look nice,” she said. “But not fine clothes--I couldn’t wear fine clothes.” “Then you’d be no better off than you are now. Do you want a carriage?” “No; I’ve got my bike.” “Do you want money to give away?” “No. It only makes poor people worse to give them money.” “Very well. Now, my cousin, you have given yourself a lesson. You have work that you like: you have a reasonably good salary: you have access to books--as many as you want: you can dress yourself as you please and as you wish: would you improve your food?” “Oh, the food’s good enough! We women don’t care much what we eat. As for Sam, he’s always wanting more buttered toast with his tea.” “Rapacious creature! Now, Mary Anne, please to reflect on these things, and don’t talk about family misfortunes so long as you yourself are concerned. And just think what a miserable girl you would be if you were to become suddenly rich.” She laughed merrily. “Miserable!” she said. “I never thought of that. You mean that I shouldn’t know what to do with the money?”