“No, uncle, there is no one there.”
“Turn the key, my boy, turn the key.”
Tom obeyed, wondering more and more, as he returned to his uncle’s side.
“Now, quick,” said the sick man; “go to that cupboard, and bring out that tin box.”
He did as he was told, and brought out an ordinary deed-box, which at a sign he placed upon a chair by his uncle’s side.
“Can I do anything else, uncle?”
“Yes, boy,” cried the sick man, “and it is my last request. Tom, I’ve been a wicked wretch to you, and I want you to forgive me before I die.”
Tom smiled.
“Of course, uncle,” he said quietly, as a feeling of pity for the wreck before him filled his breast, “I suppose I was very stupid, and made you cross.”
“He does not know, he does not know,” groaned James Brandon, as he clung to the boy’s hand, “and I must tell him. Tom, my boy, it was a sore temptation, and I did not resist it. I robbed you, my boy, dreadfully. Here, take these, it is to make amends: deeds of some property, my boy, and the mortgage of some money I have lent—nearly five thousand pounds, my boy, and all yours by rights.”