“Have you so specified in your will?” asked Curtis.
“I have made two wills. Both are in yonder secretary. By the first the property is bequeathed to you and Florence. By the second and later, it goes to my lost boy in the event of his recovery. Of course, you and Florence are not forgotten, but the bulk of the property goes to Harvey.”
“I sincerely wish the boy might be restored to you,” said Curtis; but his tone belied his words. “Believe me, the loss of the property would affect me little, if you could be made happy by realizing your warmest desire; but, uncle, I think it only the part of a friend to point out to you, as I have already done, the baselessness of any such expectation.”
“It may be as you say, Curtis,” said his uncle, with a sigh. “If I were thoroughly convinced of it, I would destroy the later will, and leave my property absolutely to you and Florence.”
“No, uncle,” said Florence, impulsively, “make no change; let the will stand.”
Curtis, screened from his uncle’s view, darted a glance of bitter indignation at Florence.
“Is the girl mad?” he muttered to himself. “Must she forever balk me?”
“Let it be so for the present, then,” said Mr. Linden, wearily. “Curtis, will you ring the bell? I am tired, and shall retire to my couch early.”
“Let me help you, Uncle John,” said Florence, eagerly.
“It is too much for your strength, my child. I am growing more and more helpless.”