"And has made no provision for you?"
"No, papa."
"Do you mean to tell me that she has left you nothing,—absolutely nothing?" The old man's manner was altogether altered as he asked this question; and there came over his face so unusual a look of energy,—of the energy of anger,—that Clara was frightened, and knew not how to answer him with that tone of authority which she was accustomed to use when she found it necessary to exercise control over him. "Do you mean to say that there is nothing,—nothing?" And as he repeated the question he pushed her away from his knees and stood up with an effort, leaning against the back of his chair.
"Dear papa, do not let this distress you."
"But is it so? Is there in truth nothing?"
"Nothing, papa. Remember that she was not really my aunt."
"Nonsense, child;—nonsense! How can you talk such trash to me as that? And then you tell me not to distress myself! I am to know that you will be a beggar in a year or two,—probably in a few months,—and that is not to distress me! She has been a wicked woman!"
"Oh, papa, do not say that."
"A wicked woman. A very wicked woman. It is always so with those who pretend to be more religious than their neighbours. She has been a very wicked woman, alluring you into her house with false hopes."
"No, papa;—no; I must contradict you. She had given me no ground for such hope."