"It's the Midas," she explained, beginning in the midst. "You saved it for Garvin, but he was only a half-owner."
"And the other?"
"Was my father. When it came to the apportionment they both said 'thirds,' and that is what poppa and Dick are waiting to say to you now."
He found his feet rather unsteadily.
"I can't take it," he said; "you know I can't. It would be too much like taking a reward for an act of simple justice. Moreover, I have my reward, and it isn't to be spoken of in the same day with any Midas of them all. I'll go and tell them so."
She rose and stood beside him, lifting the loving eyes to his. The soft glow of the firelight made a golden aureole of the red-brown hair, and the sweet lips were tremulous.
"If you must, Henry. But loving-kindness isn't always in giving and serving and relinquishing. My father has his ideal of justice, too, and so has James Garvin. But for you, they say, the Midas would never have been found, or, having been found, would straightway have been lost again. I know the money is nothing to you,—to us two, who have so much; but won't you make a little concession, a little sacrifice of pride,—for their sakes, Henry?"
He took her face between his hands and bent to kiss the lips of pleading.
"Not for their sakes, nor for all the world beside, my beloved; but always and always for yours. Come; let us go together."