“It came from the old farm. There was oil on it and I sold it for a great price. I was happily married. I came here and have been successful in business. Half of it all is yours.”
“I won’t take it.”
“John,” said William Carstairs, “I offered you money once and you struck it out of my hand. You remember?”
“Yes.”
“What I am offering you now is your own. You can’t strike it out of my hand. It is not mine, but yours.”
“I won’t have it,” protested the man. “It’s too late. You don’t know what I’ve been, a common thief. ‘Crackerjack’ is my name. Every policeman and detective in New York knows me.”
“But you’ve got a little Helen, too, haven’t you?” interposed the little girl with wisdom and tact beyond her years.
“Yes.”
“And you said she was very poor and had no Christmas.”
“Yes.”