Gertrude inclined her head.
“Eh? What?” cried the old man excitedly, and his deeply sunken eyes seemed to glow. “You—you are not beginning to like him?”
“Oh! uncle, dear,” sobbed the girl, “I detest him, and he frightens me.”
“Ah!” ejaculated the old man, with a sigh of content followed by a low chuckle. “A fox, that’s what he is Gertie. Thinks I shall leave you all my money, and that he’ll marry you and get it to spend—a mean, despicable, cunning fox. But I haven’t left you a penny, my pet.”
“No, uncle.”
“But don’t tell him so. I want him to be punished. He deserves it. I helped him a dozen times, but he always turned out badly. Not left you a penny, Gertie. Ain’t you bitter against me?”
“Bitter against you who have always been like a dear father!”
“Eh? Well, tried to be, little one,” said the old man as he toyed with the girl’s long, wavy dark hair. “Poor little fatherless, motherless thing! why, of course I did. But now look here, Gertie. I’m wasting time, and there’s so little left.”
“Don’t say that, dear.”
“But I must, my pet. And don’t cry; nothing to cry for. An old man of eighty-six going to sleep and rest, Gertie—that’s all. I’m not sorry, only to leave you, my dear. I want to live till George comes home and marries you. You—you will marry him, Gertie?”