“Sure. I know Bob Douglas—and Gibson, the lawyer, too. Gibson has been in touch with the poor old man all the time. I expect Uncle Terry must have left the will and all his papers with Gibson when he hiked out for Alaska. Poor, poor old man! He’s gone without my ever having seen him again.” Garry’s voice was broken and he turned to look out of the window.
“Not your fault, my boy,” said the major, clearing his throat.
“No, sir. But my misfortune. I know now that the old man loved me or he would not have made me rich in the end.”
Major Dale was reading the long telegram again. “Your friend, Mr. Douglas, repeats a phrase of the will, it is evident,” he said softly. “Your uncle says you are to have his money ‘because you are too honest to ever make any for yourself.’ Do you believe that, Garry?” and his eyes suddenly twinkled.
Garry Knapp blushed and shook his head negatively. “That’s just the old man’s caustic wit,” he said. “I’ll make good all right. I’ve got the land, and now I’ve got the money to develop it——”
“Major Dale! Where is Miss Dorothy?”
“Gone out for a tramp in the snow. I heard her with the boys,” said the major, smiling. “I—I expect, Garry, you wish to tell her the good news?”
“And something else, Major, if you will permit me.”
The old gentleman looked at him searchingly. “I am not altogether sure that you deserve to get her, Garry. You are a laggard in love,” he said. “But you have my best wishes.”
“You’ll not find me slow that way after this!” exclaimed Garry Knapp gaily, as he made for the door.