"What is it that you are worried about, if money will not answer?" she said, at length.
"Nothing, aunt—why should you think it?" He spoke slowly and in a wavering voice at first, then with a sort of reckless impetuosity he broke into a laugh. It was not his old gleeful laugh, and Mrs. Gray only looked startled by it.
"There, now, put up the old pocket-book, and give me a hearty good-night kiss," he said hurriedly, "I shall be off in the morning before you are up."
"Good night, Robert," said Mrs. Gray, with a meek and disappointed air. "That kiss is the first one that ever fell heavily on your old aunt's heart. You are keeping something back from me."
"No, aunt, no!" The words were uttered faintly, and Mrs. Gray felt that the ardor of truth was not there. For a moment both were silent; Robert had lighted a candle, and stood on the hearth looking hard into the blaze; he turned his eyes slowly upon his aunt. She sat with one hand upon the pocket-book, gazing into the fire. There was anxiety and doubt in her features. Robert sighed heavily.
"Good night, aunt."
"Good night."
She listened to each slow footstep, as her nephew went up stairs. When his chamber door closed, she buckled the strap around her pocket-book, and dropped it with a deep sigh into its repository among her voluminous skirts.
"I can't understand it," she murmured—"I can't make out what ails him!"