But to be ashamed, and to own to the shame, were two different things. He contrived to hide his emotion.
'I am exceedingly sorry to hear of my brother's ill-health, Catherine. Still, that does not efface the wrong he did me.'
'What if I can prove to you that Loring was not influenced in his final choice by Uncle Jack?'
'I fail to understand how that could be. You never met—my nephew.'
'No, uncle, but you have another nephew, who was his friend, who was with him before his death, who wrote for him two letters of farewell—one to you, one to Uncle Jack—my Cousin George in Melbourne.'
The squire's expression changed again. He glanced anxiously into Catherine's face. How much did she know? Was his wrong-doing to be exposed, brought home to him by this penniless niece, who had refused to sacrifice her sense of duty for the gain of a fortune?—this girl, whose spirit he had admired in times past?
It was too strange that she should humble him! Could he not think of any way in which to make sure of her silence?
No; for she was absolutely unselfish and honest.
There was admiration for her in his mind, even while she was so calmly defying him. Her truthful brown eyes did not falter beneath his glance; her temper was not aroused. She was simply in earnest—doing battle for Uncle Jack.
He could not think how to answer her, until she spoke again, quietly: