“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.”
“Humph! Lost it? Then if I had money and tried for our family estates, I might lose it too.”
“No, no, my boy; you would be certain to win. Did you do what I told you?”
“Yes, aunt; but I can’t use them down here.”
“Let me look, my dear; and I do not see why not. You must be bold; and proud of your descent.”
“But they’d laugh.”