The two maiden sisters exchanged a look of triumph. In this hand-to-hand contest for the rich man’s favour, it did not seem as if either Ellen Darrell or her son were gaining any great advantage.
Launcelot bent over his great-uncle’s chair.
“I am very happy to find you alive and well, sir, on my return,” he said, respectfully.
The old man lifted his eyes, and looked earnestly at the handsome face bent over him.
“You are very good, nephew,” he said; “I sometimes think that, because I have a little money to leave behind me, everybody wishes for my death. It’s hard to fancy that every breath one draws is grudged by those who live with us. That’s very hard!”
“Uncle!” cried the maiden nieces, simultaneously, with a little shriek of ladylike horror. “When have you ever fancied that?”
The old man shook his head, with a feeble smile upon his tremulous lips.
“You are very good to me, my dears,” he said, “very good but, sick men have strange fancies. I sometimes think I’ve lived too long for myself and others. But never mind that; never mind that. Who are those people there?” he asked, in a different tone.
“Friends of mine, uncle,” Mrs. Darrell answered; “and one of them is a friend of yours. You know Mr. Monckton?”
“Monckton! Oh, yes—yes! Monckton, the lawyer,” muttered the old man; “and who is that girl yonder?” he cried suddenly, with quite an altered voice and manner, almost as if the shock of some great surprise had galvanized him into new life. “Who is that girl yonder, with fair hair and her face turned this way? Tell me who she is, Ellen Darrell.”