His mother laughed indulgently.
“Not quite, Benny, though we have been left a nice little fortune by your cousin, Stanley G. Fulton—remember the name, dear, your cousin, Stanley G. Fulton. And it wasn’t Africa, it was South America.”
“And did you all get some, too?” panted Benny, looking eagerly about him.
“We sure did,” nodded his Uncle Frank, “all but poor Mr. Smith here. I guess Mr. Stanley G. Fulton didn’t know he was a cousin, too,” he joked, with a wink in Mr. Smith’s direction.
“But where’s Aunt Maggie? Why ain’t she here? She got some, too, didn’t she?” Benny began to look anxious.
His mother lifted her eyebrows.
“No. You forget, my dear. Your Aunt Maggie is not a Blaisdell at all. She’s a Duff—a very different family.”
“I don’t care, she’s just as good as a Blaisdell,” cut in Mellicent; “and she seems like one of us, anyway.”
“And she didn’t get anything?” bemoaned Benny. “Say,” he turned valiantly to Mr. Smith, “shouldn’t you think he might have given Aunt Maggie a little of that money?”
“I should, indeed!” Mr. Smith spoke with peculiar emphasis.