“Is it,” said Webster sternly, “that you have grown to love your gold? If so, learn that I will have none of it.”
“You must have your share. It is yours; you cannot refuse it.”
“So it is that?” said Webster quietly. “Ah, my poor friend, I can understand how in your loneliness you must have felt yourself neglected, and that your thoughts may have dwelt for compensation on the wealth you have earned; but, man, believe me, I care not if I never see it, still less possess it.”
“Neither do I,” muttered Hume.
“Then what the devil is it?”
The two stood looking at each other, and the contrast between them was painful, and so obvious that Hume seemed to shrink within himself.
“Ah,” continued Webster, while a sudden smile broke the cloud on his face, “you think of Laura! Come, Frank, you trusted me. Can you believe that I would abuse it—more especially when you were left behind?”
“Then,” said Hume, meeting his friend’s convincing glance, “you have not asked her?”
“No, my lad,” said Webster gently; “and if I had asked her, it would have been of no use. She loves you.”
“Loves me!” cried Hume with a wild laugh—“loves me! Look at me—you can see what I am.”