"They must undo any harm they may have done. Sinners are not to repent only in words, uncle."
"I've been feeling lately," he murmured.
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.