“What, he has given you the care of his money?” said Ethel.
“Yes; I saw him turning something out of his waistcoat-pocket into the drawer of the looking-glass, and sighing in that very sad way. He said his fees had come to such an accumulation that he must see about sending them to the bank; and then he told me of the delight of throwing his first fee into dear mamma’s lap, when they were just married, and his old uncle had given up to him, and how he had brought them to her ever since; he said she had spoiled him by taking all trouble off his hands. He looked at it, as if it was so sorrowful to him to have to dispose of it, that I begged him not to plague himself any more, but let me see about it, as dear mamma used to do; so he said I was spoiling him too, but he brought me the drawer, and emptied it out here: when he was gone, I packed it up, and I have been waiting to ask Richard to take it all to the bank, out of his sight.”
“You counted it?” said Richard.
“Yes—there’s fifty—I kept seventeen towards the week’s expenses. Just see that it is right,” said Margaret, showing her neat packets.
“Oh, Ritchie,” said Ethel, “what can expense signify, when all that has been kicking about loose in an open drawer? What would not one of those rolls do?”
“I think I had better take them out of your way,” said Richard quietly. “Am I to bring back the book to you, Margaret?”
“Yes, do,” said Margaret; “pray do not tease him with it.” And as her brother left the room, she continued, “I wish he was better. I think he is more oppressed now than even at first. The pain of his arm, going on so long, seems to me to have pulled him down; it does not let him sleep, and, by the end of the day, he gets worn and fagged by seeing so many people, and exerting himself to talk and think; and often, when there is something that must be asked, I don’t know how to begin, for it seems as if a little more would be too much for him.”
“Yes, Richard is right,” said Ethel mournfully; “it will not do to press him about our concerns; but do you think him worse to-day?”
“He did not sleep last night, and he is always worse when he does not drive out into the country; the fresh air, and being alone with Richard, are a rest for him. To-day is especially trying; he does not think poor old Mr. Southern will get through the evening, and he is so sorry for the daughter.”
“Is he there now?”