At once reassured, he grasped the feeble hand that was held out to him, and began to pour forth boyish words of cheer and comfort, bringing a smile to his uncle's lips.
"This is only a bad attack. You'll be over it in no time," he assured him. "Doctors are mostly old women and love croaking. Shall I shake up your pillow?" he asked, at a loss what to say or do next, "and—and give you a dose of medicine?"
"Teddie," Mr. Desborough said—and at the sound of his voice Teddie's hope sank again—"Teddie, we must look this thing squarely in the face. I am dying, my boy, and I sent for you. I had one or two things to speak of. I leave all I have, unconditionally, to my niece Helen, which circumstance you will all learn soon enough now. But what I wanted to say is this. That little sister of yours, my little Hazel"—his face softened strangely as he spoke her name—"who has always been wanting to 'earn money,' to quote her own words"—again he smiled—"for the most unselfish purposes, ought to be told that she, and she alone, has redeemed the fortunes of her house. But for her I should never have become reconciled to my niece Helen, or learned to love her and her children."
"It was my intention," he continued, after pausing to rest, "to leave all to Hazel; but she will be well provided for; and I know her well enough to feel convinced that, were she here, she would tell me how infinitely she would prefer that this money should restore the old home and the old name to their former status. The child can then go to her new home, and enter upon her new life with a light heart. Will you tell her this from me?"
Something gripped Teddie's throat. "All right," he said huskily, "I'll tell her."
"As for you, my boy, you are not going to refuse, for your own part, to be benefited by your old uncle's money, in that hot-spirited way of yours?" Mr. Desborough asked, half anxious, half amused.
Teddie cleared his throat. "No, no," he assured the dying man, "we will take it and use it. But, I say, uncle, hang the money," he burst out. "Don't talk like this. You have got years to live yet. You get well and let us all go on in the good old way. Why, mother and Hazel were saying how they hoped you would spend Christmas with us, and we—they—think an awful lot of you. Don't go and die yet."
A gleam of pure and genuine happiness passed over the face on the pillow. He was not to die, then, quite unmourned; and as for this warm-hearted boy and his little pet, Hazel, and his niece Helen, for the matter of that, he could believe that they would rather keep the crusty old relative among them than be possessed of his money, incredible as it seemed.
"I should like to see Helen," he said suddenly, and he looked wistfully at his young nephew. "Do you think she could come?"
"I have already telegraphed to her," Teddie replied; "she could be here by about five o'clock, I think."