"Tell me, Champney, have you ever thought your aunt might remember you—for the wrong she did you?"
"No; and if she should, I never would take a cent of it."
"Oh, I'm so glad—so glad!" She squeezed both his hands right hard.
He read her thought and smiled to himself; he was glad that in this he had not disappointed her.
"But there's one thing I wish she would do—poor—poor Aunt Meda—" he glanced up at the light in the window.
"Yes, 'poor,' Champney—I know." She was nodding emphatically.
"I wish she would leave enough to Mr. Van Ostend to repay with interest what he repaid for me to the Company; it would be only just, for, work as I may, I can never hope to do that—and I long so to do it—no workman could do it—"
She interrupted gayly: "Oh, but you've a working-woman by your side!" She snatched away her small hands—for she belonged to the small people of the earth. "See, Champney, the two hands! I can work, and I'm not afraid of it. I can earn a lot to help with—and I shall. There's my cooking, and singing, and embroidery—"
He smiled again in the dark at her enthusiasm—it was so like her!
"And I'll lift the care from our mother too,—and you're not to fret your dear soul about the Van Ostend money—if one can't do it, surely two can with God's blessing. Now I must go in—and you may give me another kiss for I've been on starvation diet these last seven years—only one—oh, Champney!"...