“I have plenty of money,” he said, “if that’s being rich. Oh, yes, I’ve got money enough! I’ve more land than Aunt Matilda.”
And then it was that suddenly Robin remembered something.
“I believe,” he said, “that I’ve heard Aunt Matilda speak about you to Jones. I seem to remember your name. You have the biggest farm in Illinois, and you have houses and houses in town. Meg, don’t you remember—when he got married, and everybody talked about how rich he was?”
And Meg did remember. She looked at him softly, and thought she knew why he had seemed gloomy, for she remembered that this rich and envied man’s wife had had a little child and died suddenly. And she had even heard once that it had almost driven him mad, because he had been fond of her.
“Are you—that one?” she said.
“Yes,” he answered, “I’m the one who got married.” And the cloud fell on his face again, and for a minute or so rested there. For he thought this thing which had happened to him was cruel and hideous, and he had never ceased to rebel against it bitterly.
Meg drew a little closer to him, but she said no more about what she knew he was thinking of. She was a clever little thing, and knew this was not the time.
And after they had eaten of the good things, until hunger seemed a thing of the past, the afternoon began as a fairy story, indeed. Little by little they began to realize that John Holt was their good and powerful giant, for it seemed that he was not only ready to do everything for them, but was rich enough.
“Have you been to the Midway Plaisance?” he asked them. He felt very sure, however, that they had not, or that, if they had, with that scant purse, they had not seen what they longed to see.
“No, we haven’t,” said Meg. “We thought we would save it until we had seen so many other things that we should not mind so very much only seeing the outsides of places. We knew we should have to make up stories all the time.”