Midge trotted off, soliloquizing as she went:
"Well, I never! I do think if she was dead and buried, the sound of money jingling atop of her grave would bring her out of it. You're to come up, Mr. Oaks. Missis is sick abed, but she'll see you."
Mr. Tom Oaks, a dashing young fellow, well-looking of face, and free and easy of manner, strolled in, hat in hand. Nathalie rose to receive him.
"Good day to you, Miss Nathalie. How are you, Mrs. Leroy? Nothing the matter, I hope."
"She is better, now," said Nathalie, placing a chair for him by the bedside.
"I suppose you've come up to pay the money?" Mrs. Leroy inquired, her fingers beginning to work, as they always did when she was excited.
Yes, Mr. Oaks had come to pay the money and obtain possession of the documents that made him master of Partridge Farm. Sundry papers were signed and handed over—a long roll of bank-bills, each for fifty pounds, were presented to Lady Leroy and greedily counted by her, over and over again. Then Nathalie had to go through the performance, and the roll was found to be correct. Mr. Oaks, master of a magnificent farm, bowed himself out, the perspiration streaming from every pore.
When he was gone, the old woman counted the bills over again—once, twice, three times; her eyes glittering with the true miser's delight. It was not to make sure of their accuracy, but for the pure and unalloyed pleasure it gave her to handle so much money and feel that it was hers.
A knock at the front door. Mrs. Leroy rolled the bills hastily up.
"Give me the box, Natty; some one's coming, and it's not safe to let any one know there's so much money in the house, and only three poor lone women of us here."