“Mine!” cried Tom, startled out of his calmness by the surprise.
“Yes, all yours, my boy. Your poor mother confided it to my care, Tom, for you, and I was tempted, and kept it all back. It was a fraud, Tom, and I am a criminal. I could not die with that on my conscience. Tell me you forgive me, Tom, before it is too late.”
Tom gazed at the convulsed face before him with a look of anger which changed into pity, and then to disgust.
“Do you hear me, boy? You must, you shall forgive me. Don’t you see I am almost a dying man?”
“My mother trusted that all to you, and you sto—kept it back, uncle,” said Tom sternly.
“Yes, my boy; yes, my boy. You are quite right—stole it all, robbed you—an orphan. But I’m punished, Tom. I haven’t had a happy hour since; and you see these—these deeds in the strong cloth-lined envelope, tied up with green silk—it is all yours, my boy. Take it and keep it till you come of age, and then it is yours to do with as you like. But tell me you forgive me.”
Tom was silent, and his uncle groaned.
“Am I to go down on my knees to you?” he cried.
“No, uncle,” said Tom sadly; “and I forgive you.”
“Ah!” cried the wretched man, “at last—at last!” and he burst out into an hysterical fit of sobbing, which was painful in the extreme to the listener, as he stood gazing down, with the great envelope in his hand, at the broken, wretched man before him, till the invalid looked up sharply.