"I'll wait and see her again, if I have to wait all night," said Saul Harrington to himself. "Hang this grim old house! It's almost as gloomy as a tomb." CHAPTER TWO. UNCLE JAMES' PLAN. "That you, Gertie?" "Yes, uncle, dear," and the girl, who had made a brave effort to grow calm, approached the side of a great four-post bedstead, where a large, thin, yellow hand lay upon the white coverlet. "That's right, my dear, don't leave me long. It's getting very near the end, my darling." "Oh, uncle, dearest, don't--don't talk like that," cried the girl, throwing herself upon her knees, and passionately kissing the yellow hand. "Ah, that's nice, my pet--that's real. You couldn't have acted that." "Uncle, dear," whispered the girl, as she raised herself, and gently passed her arm beneath the neck of the gaunt, withered old man whose head lay upon the white pillow, "it doesn't sound like you to talk so bitterly." "Oh, yes, it does, my dear. Why shouldn't I tell you I know you are a dear, good, patient little darling, true as steel to the disagreeable, miserly old hunks whom everybody hates and wishes dead. But who was that downstairs?" "Mr Saul Harrington, uncle." "Damn him!" "Uncle, dear!" "Well, he deserves it. Do you know, Gertie, that man only says one prayer, and that is for my death." "Oh, uncle, you misjudge him." "Eh? What? Has he been trying to court you again?" Gertrude inclined her head. "Eh? What?" cried the old man excitedly, and his deeply sunken eyes seemed to glow. "You--you are not beginning to like him?" "Oh! uncle, dear," sobbed the girl, "I detest him, and he frightens me." "Ah!" ejaculated the old man, with a sigh of content followed by a low chuckle. "A fox, that's what he is Gertie. Thinks I shall leave you all my money, and that he'll marry you and get it to spend--a mean, despicable, cunning fox. But I haven't left you a penny, my pet." "No, uncle." "But don't tell him so. I want him to be punished. He deserves it. I helped him a dozen times, but he always turned out badly. Not left you a penny, Gertie. Ain't you bitter against me?" "Bitter against you who have always been like a dear father!" "Eh? Well, tried to be, little one," said the old man as he toyed with the girl's long, wavy dark hair. "Poor little fatherless, motherless thing! why, of course I did. But now look here, Gertie. I'm wasting time, and there's so little left." "Don't say that, dear." "But I must, my pet. And don't cry; nothing to cry for. An old man of eighty-six going to sleep and rest, Gertie--that's all. I'm not sorry, only to leave you, my dear. I want to live till George comes home and marries you. You--you will marry him, Gertie?" "If he is the good, true man you say, uncle, and he will love me, and wish me to be his wife, I will pray God to make me a true, dutiful companion to him for life." "But--but you don't speak out, my child," said the old man suspiciously.