The old man laughed with less complication of sentiment than before. “I should make a fine country gentleman,” he said, “to sit down and hob and nob with the Earl and Lord Barrington, and Sir John and Sir Thomas. What should I do with grand carriages, that never go outside these four walls, or with men-servants, when I can’t bear the sight of ’em? No, no! and I shouldn’t like it, neither. I can put it all down on paper for you; but I shouldn’t like to do it myself. I like to stick to the money, Lucy. I like to lay it up, and see it grow--that’s my pleasure in life. It makes me happy when the stocks go up. Interest and compound interest, that’s what pleases me.” “But, papa,” said Lucy, astonished, “_that_ is all quite different;” she nodded her head toward the will always lying in the blotting-case within reach of his hand. “There it is all spending and giving; over and over again you say there is to be no hoarding up, no putting by.” “Ah!” said old Trevor, rubbing his hands with enjoyment, “that is for you; that is a different thing altogether. When I’ve had my own way all my life, down to the last moment, why, then you shall have yours.” “How can you call it mine?” she said. “I don’t think I want to have my own way--except in some things. I am very willing to do what you tell me, papa; but it will not be my will--it will be your will. Why, then, shouldn’t you do it yourself, and have the pleasure of it, and not leave it to me?” “The pleasure of it!” he said. And then paused and cleared his voice, and drew his chair nearer to hers. “Look here, Lucy,” he said, “you have heard something about your mother--not very much; but still you have heard something. She was a good woman, a very good woman. She was not of my kind. In the way of money, she let me manage--she never interfered. But still she was not of my kind. She was a woman that had little but trouble in this world, Lucy. She was what people call an old maid when we married. We were both old maids for that matter,” he added, with his usual chuckle, “and she had always had a hard life. She the old maid of the family; when anything was wrong, she was the one that was sent for. She was the one that nursed them all when they were ill. Father and mother--she closed both their eyes. She never had time to think what was going to become of her. When she came back to Farafield to live with poor Robert, nobody knew he was rich. It was the old story over again. She thought she was coming only to nurse him, and slave for him till he died. Your mother was a good woman--a very good woman, Lucy--” His voice was a little thick, and the tears sprung into Lucy’s eyes. “Oh, thank you, papa; thank you for telling me!” she said.