"Where's Tom?" he asked.
"I think he's asleep," said Hetty. "It's no wonder. Aren't you very tired, Walter?"
Ingleby laughed drowsily and stretched his aching limbs. "I really believe I am, though I scarcely felt it until this moment. What are you sitting up for, Hetty?"
"I don't quite know. Still, one doesn't come into a fortune every day. I suppose it is a fortune, Walter?"
Ingleby's face grew a trifle grave. "It at least looks like it, but nobody could tell just now. A placer mine often works out unexpectedly."
"Still, if it doesn't, what are you going to do?"
"Why don't you say—we?"
Hetty smiled curiously, and shook her head. "You will not want Tom and me now."
"If you fancy I would ever be willing to lose sight of either of you you are doing me a wrong. Haven't I been living on your bounty—on what you made by baking with your own little hands? Would we have found the gold if it hadn't been for you?"
Hetty flushed a little, but she persisted.