Tom was silent for some minutes, and her face became first red and then pale.
She wanted to say something to her father. Generally she thought aloud in his presence, such good friends were they; but she needed more courage than she had now.
At last she rose and stood beside him, putting her hand on his shoulder, and turning her face so that he could not see it.
“Father,” she said, trying to steady her voice and speak in her ordinary tones, “do you remember promising me that I should have that mortgage, or whatever it is, for my portion?”
“Of course I do.”
“May I have the papers and keep them in my possession now?”
“Why, what do you want them for, Tom? What possible good could they do you?”
“No good at all, only I should like them.”
Mr. Whitwell hesitated.
“Do you think you are quite capable of taking care of them? They are worth three thousand pounds, you know.”