"Uncle-oh! speak low. I have been near death. I have been ill for so long a time. I have come to you to hear about them—my father and Rhoda. Tell me what they are doing, and do they sleep and eat well, and are not in trouble? I could not write. I was helpless. I could not hold a pen. Be kind, dear uncle, and do not reproach me. Please, tell me that they have not been sorrowful."
A keenness shot from Anthony's eyes. "Then, where's your husband?" he asked.
She made a sad attempt at smiling. "He is abroad."
"How about his relations? Ain't there one among 'em to write for you when you're ill?"
"He… Yes, he has relatives. I could not ask them. Oh! I am not strong, uncle; if you will only leave following me so with questions; but tell me, tell me what I want to know."
"Well, then, you tell me where your husband banks," returned Anthony.
"Indeed, I cannot say."
"Do you," Anthony stretched out alternative fingers, "do you get money from him to make payments in gold, or, do you get it in paper?"
She stared as in terror of a pit-fall. "Paper," she said at a venture.
"Well, then, name your Bank."