“Abner Morehall!” exclaimed the man, incredulously.
“Yes, Abner Morehall, your own uncle.”
“But—I didn’t know—why didn’t he tell?—” stammered Mr. Morehall, confusedly.
“Yes—why do you suppose he didn’t tell you?” said Berty. “That’s the blood—the better blood than that of paupers. He was ashamed to have you know of his misfortune.”
“He thought I wouldn’t help him,” burst out her companion, and, with shame and chagrin in his eyes, he sat down at the table and put his hand to his head. “It’s those confounded notes,” he said, at last. “I often told him he ought never to put his name to paper.”
“It was his generosity and kindness—his implicit faith in his fellow men,” continued Berty, warmly; “and now, Mr. Morehall, can you say that ‘blood,’ or shrewdness, or anything else, will always keep misfortune from a certain family? Who is to assure you that your great-great-grandchildren will not be living on River Street?”
No one could assure the disturbed man that this contingency might not arise, and, lifting his head, he gazed at Berty as if she were some bird of ill-omen.
“You will come to see your relatives, I suppose?” she murmured.
He made an assenting gesture with his hand.
“They are two dear old people. They give tone to the street—and you will send a watering-cart this afternoon?”