"Thank God, little girlie, you've got yer dues at last," was Uncle Terry's remark, and then, as the probable end of Telly's life with them cast its shadow athwart his vision, he bowed his face upon his hands and added in a pained voice: "I knowed it'ud come an' we'd lose ye, soon or late."
The pathos of his act and words, with the overwhelming disclosure, seemed to force upon Telly the belief that in some unknown way it meant the ending of her present home life. For one instant she looked at him, and then the tide of emotion swept her to his side and kneeling there she thrust the envelope into his hands and clasped his arm.
"I won't take it, father," she said quickly, "not one penny of it! It's all yours, and I'll never leave you so long as you live, and no one can make me!" Then as the tide ebbed, her head sank upon his knee and she began to sob.
"Thar ain't no cause fur worryin' 'bout that yit, girlie," he answered, placing one hand on her bowed head, "an' no need fur ye to leave us 'thout ye mind to. We want ye allus, long as we kin keep ye, make sure." Then noting the dumfounded look on Albert's face he added, "Ye mustn't mind Telly's ways, Mr. Page, it's upset her a little an' made her histeriky. She don't quite understand, yit, what it all means. She ain't much used ter havin' a fortin drapped in her lap."
To Albert the climax was not what he anticipated. If this heritage did not relieve her sense of filial duty, he thought, what chance would his love have? But Uncle Terry was wiser than the rest.
"Don't mind what I said, girlie," he continued, stroking her bowed head and looking into the slowly dying fire as if it contained a prophecy. "It was an inadvartance." And then rising and lifting the girl tenderly, he added, "We'd best go to bed now, Lissy, an' mebbe Mr. Page, bein' a lawyer, can 'splain matters to Telly."
When they had left the room Albert seated himself on the sofa to which the girl had gone, and said: "I am a trifle puzzled and a little disappointed, Telly, at the way you feel about this inheritance. It is rightfully yours and will enable you to do much for the future comfort of those you are devoted to. I had hoped, also, it would relieve your feeling of obligation a little."
"No money can do that," she answered quickly, "and all this won't be worth to father the care he has grown accustomed to from me. It was his feeling that I was likely to leave him, though, that upset me, and then that name you called me by hurt a little."
"Still the same Chinese wall of filial duty," thought Albert, and growing desperate at the prospect of possible years of waiting and heart-hunger he continued:
"But won't this money do more for them than you can, Telly? Is there any need of his remaining here to putter over lobster traps and drive a wagon, rain or shine? He is getting too old for that, anyway. Why not build a home for them in Boston, or better still, share ours there?"