Rhoda expected a miser's confession.
“I've been feeling, the last two or three days,” he resumed.
“What, uncle?”
“Sort of taste of a tremendous nice lemon in my mouth, my dear, and liked it, till all of a sudden I swallowed it whole—such a gulp! I felt it just now. I'm all right.”
“No, uncle,” said Rhoda: “you are not all right: this money makes you miserable. It does; I can see that it does. Now, put those bags in my hands. For a minute, try; it will do you good. Attend to me; it will. Or, let me have them. They are poison to you. You don't want them.”
“I don't,” cried Anthony. “Upon my soul, I don't. I don't want 'em. I'd give—it is true, my dear, I don't want 'em. They're poison.”
“They're poison to you,” said Rhoda; “they're health, they're life to me. I said, 'My uncle Anthony will help me. He is not—I know his heart—he is not a miser.' Are you a miser, uncle?”
Her hand was on one of his bags. It was strenuously withheld: but while she continued speaking, reiterating the word “miser,” the hold relaxed. She caught the heavy bag away, startled by its weight.
He perceived the effect produced on her, and cried; “Aha! and I've been carrying two of 'em—two!”
Rhoda panted in her excitement.