Mr Smith hummed and haa’ed, as the saying is, and muttered something about a letter.
“No, no, no,” she cried; “you only thought you ought to break the news gently to me, but I saw strange joy in your eye as soon as you entered. Now, dear Mr Smith, I appreciate all your kindness, but you see I can bear joy as well as grief. Tell me all about it.”
And the solicitor did so. At the conclusion she took out her handkerchief, and sobbed just a little.
Then she abruptly rose and left the room.
Mr Smith said never a word. He knew she had gone to pray.
Next evening they were seated together—mother and son—mother and “prodigal son,” as Harvey would persist in calling himself.
Mr Smith respected their feelings. He went away to fish, and did not return till dinner-time.
But that evening the trio had much to talk about, many business matters to discuss.
“Alva shall return to its rightful owner,” exclaimed Mr Smith. “I’m determined on that, if Steve were nineteen times an American millionaire. It was sold for half, nay, but fourth its value. It was sold to pay London debts of honour forsooth. Turf and otherwise. Bah! The money shall be raised to repay Mr Steve, and out he shall go, as sure as I belong to the great family of Smith. I’ll employ London counsel that will astonish him. You’ll see I’ll do it. Can and shall. And I won’t let the grass grow under my feet either.”
Nor did the worthy solicitor.