“No she doesn’t, neither! And what about it, any way? It’s my own, every cent.”
“Miss Bethia,” said David, “are you very rich?”
Miss Bethia gave a laugh, which sounded like a sob.
“Yes; I’m rich, if it comes to that! I’ve got more than ever I’ll spend, and nobody has got any claim on me—no blood relation except cousin Ira Barnes’s folks—and they’re all better off than I be, or they think so. Bless you! I can let your ma have it as well as not, even if I wasn’t going to have the books, which I am, I hope.”
“Miss Bethia, I don’t know what to say to you,” said Mrs Inglis.
“Well, don’t say anything, then. It seems to me you owe it to your husband’s memory to keep the books together. For my part, I don’t see how you can think of refusing my offer, as you can’t take them with you.”
“To care for the books—yes—”
“See here, David!” said Miss Bethia, “what do you say about it? You are a boy of sense. Tell your ma there’s no good being so contrary—I mean—I don’t know what I mean, exactly,” added she. “I shall have to think it over a spell.”
David turned his eyes toward his mother in wonder—in utter perplexity, but said nothing.
“There! I’ll have to tell it after all; and I hope it won’t just spoil my pleasure in it; but I shouldn’t wonder. The money ain’t mine—hasn’t been for quite a spell. I set it apart to pay David’s expenses at college; so it’s his, or yours till he’s of age, if you’re a mind to claim it. Your husband knew all about it.”