"Ah?" said Bellew, staring straight before him. His beloved pipe had slipped from his fingers, and, for a wonder, lay all neglected. "It was after she had talked with Adam, was it, my Porges?"
"Yes,—that's why I knew it was 'bout money; Adam's always talking 'bout morgyges, an' bills, an' money. Oh Uncle Porges, how I do—hate money!"
"It is sometimes a confounded nuisance!" nodded Bellew.
"But I do wish we had some,—so we could pay all her bills, an' morgyges for her. She'd be so happy, you know, an' go about singing like she used to,—an' I shouldn't worry myself into an old man before my time,—all wrinkled, an' gray, you know; an' all would be revelry, an' joy, if only she had enough gold, an' bank-notes!"
"And she was—crying, you say!" demanded Bellew again, his gaze still far away.
"Yes."
"You are quite sure you saw the—tears, my Porges?"
"Oh yes! an' there was one on her nose, too,—a big one, that shone awful' bright,—twinkled, you know."
"And she said it was only a headache, did she?"
"Yes, but that meant money,—money always makes her head ache, lately. Oh Uncle Porges!—I s'pose people do find fortunes, sometimes, don't they?"