At that she looked at me in sweet concern, but, seeing me wear a wry grin, smiled too. "Poor lad," said she, "it is nearly a month you lie there so patiently." "Not patiently; no! And if I knew more oaths than I think up all day long it might ease me to endure more meekly this accursed sickness.... What is it you sew?" "Wrist-bands." "Whose?" As she offered no reply I supposed that she was making a pair o' bands for Nick. "Do you hear further from Albany?" I inquired. "No, sir." "Then it is sure that Mr. Fonda has become childish and his memory is gone," said I, "because if he comprehended your present situation and your necessity he would surely have sent for you long since." "He always was kind," she said simply. I lay on my pillows, sipping chocolate and watching her fingers so deft with thread and needle. After a long silence I asked her rather bluntly why she had not long ago consented to the necessary legal steps offered her by Mr. Fonda, which would have secured her always against want. As she made me no answer, I looked hard at her over my bowl, and saw her eyes very faintly glimmering with tears. "The news of Mr. Fonda's condition has greatly saddened you," said I. "Yes. He was kind to me." "Why, then, did you evade his expressed wishes?" I repeated. "He must surely have loved you like a father to offer you adoption." "I could not accept," she said in a low voice, sewing rapidly the while. "Why not?" "I scarcely know. It was because of pride, perhaps.... I was his servant. He paid me well. I could not permit him to overpay my poor services.... And he has other children, and grandchildren, with whose proper claims I would not permit myself--or him--to interfere. No, it was unthinkable--however kindly meant----" "That," said I impatiently, "smacks of a too Scotch and stubborn conscience, does it not, Penelope?" "Stubborn Scotch pride, I fear. For it is not in my Scottish nature to accept benefits for which I never can hope to render service in return." "Imaginary obligation!" said I scornfully, yet admiring the independence which, naked and defenceless, prefers to spin its own raiment rather than accept the divided cloak of charity. And it was plain to me that this girl was no beggar, no passive accepter of bounties unearned from anybody. And now I was secretly chagrined and ashamed that I had so postured before her as My Lord Bountiful, and had offered her the Summer House who had refused a modest fortune from a good old man who loved her and who had some excuse and reason to so deal by one to whom his bodily comfort had long been beholden. "Few," said I, "would have put aside so agreeable an opportunity for ease and comfort in life. I fear you were foolish, Penelope."