“I don’t mean now. I mean haven’t you really got any to leave me in your will?”
There was a far-off look in Aunt Margaret’s eyes as she slowly shook her head.
“You will leave me what you have, aunt?”
“If I had hundreds of thousands, you should have all, Henri; but, alas, I have none. I had property once.”
“What became of it?”
“Well, my dear, it is a long story and a sad one. I could not tell it to you even in brief, but you are a man now, and must know the meaning of the word love.”
“Oh, yes, I know what that means; but I say, don’t fidget my hair about so.”
“I could not tell you all, Henri. It was thirty years ago. He was a French gentleman of noble descent. His estates had been confiscated, and I was only too glad to place my little fortune at his disposal to recover them.”
“And did he?”
“No, my dear. Those were terrible times. He lost all; and with true nobility, he wrote to me that he loved me too well to drag me down to poverty—to share his lot as an exile. I have never seen him since. But I would have shared his lot.”