“He didn’t know anything about these cousins,” went on the man dully, wearily, “and he got to wondering what they would do with the money. I think he felt, as you said to-day that you feel, that one must know how to spend five dollars if one would get the best out of five thousand. So Fulton felt that, before he gave a man fifteen or twenty millions, he would like to know—what he would probably do with them. He had seen so many cases where sudden great wealth had brought—great sorrow.
“And so then he fixed up a little scheme; he would give each one of these three cousins of his a hundred thousand dollars apiece, and then, unknown to them, he would get acquainted with them, and see which of them would be likely to make the best use of those twenty millions. It was a silly scheme, of course,—a silly, absurd foolishness from beginning to end. It—”
He did not finish his sentence. There was a rush of swift feet, a swish of skirts, then full upon him there fell a whirlwind of sobs, clinging arms, and incoherent ejaculations.
“It wasn’t silly—it wasn’t silly. It was perfectly splendid! I see it all now. I see it all! I understand. Oh, I think it was—wonderful! And I—I’m so ashamed!”
Later—very much later, when something like lucid coherence had become an attribute of their conversation, as they sat together upon the old sofa, the man drew a long breath and said:—
“Then I’m quite forgiven?”
“There is nothing to forgive.”
“And you consider yourself engaged to both John Smith and Stanley G. Fulton?”
“It sounds pretty bad, but—yes,” blushed Miss Maggie.
“And you must love Stanley G. Fulton just exactly as well—no, a little better, than you did John Smith.”