All day she marveled at her happiness, her newly-awakened unselfishness. In her gratitude for what she sincerely believed to have been a providential deliverance from Copeland she voluntarily gave the nurse the night off.
Her good cheer had communicated itself to Farley. The nurse was a nuisance, he said, and he would soon be well enough to dispense with her altogether. Over the supper they ate together in his room she exerted herself to amuse him and he proved unusually amiable. The afternoon paper’s account of his gift of the swimming-pool revived this as a topic of conversation.
“I haven’t done as much as I ought to for the poor and unlucky. I expect they’ve called me a pretty hard specimen; and I’ve turned down lots of these people that’s always chasin’ round with subscription papers. But I always had an idea I’d like to do something that would count. I’m sorry now I didn’t give those Boys’ Club folks a boost while I could see the money spent myself. I’ve tried makin’ wills and ain’t sure about any of ’em. I got a good mind to burn ’em all, Nan, and leave it up to you to give away what you think’s right. Only I wouldn’t want you to feel bound to do it. These things don’t count for much unless you feel in your heart you want to do ’em.”
She tried to divert his thoughts to other channels, but he persisted in discussing ways and means of helping the poor and unfortunate. She was surprised at his intimate knowledge of local philanthropic organizations; for a number of them he expressed the greatest contempt, as impractical and likely to do harm. Others he commended warmly and urged her to acquaint herself with their methods and needs.
“We ought to do those things ourselves, while we’re alive. You can’t tell what they’ll do with your money after you’re dead,” he kept repeating.
She wondered whether he regretted now having made the will that had caused her so much anguish. Perhaps.... But her resentment had vanished. His solicitude for friendless boys, based upon his own forlorn youth, impressed her deeply. It was out of the same spirit that he had lifted her from poverty—she had even greater cause for gratitude and generosity than he, and she said so in terms that touched him.
“You mustn’t think of those things any more, papa,” she said finally. “If you have a bad night, Miss Rankin will give me a scolding. I’m going to read you something.”
“All right,” he acquiesced. “To-morrow I’ll talk to you some more about my will. It’s worried me a whole lot; I want to do the right thing, Nan; I want you to know that.”
“Of course I know that, papa; I’d be a mighty stupid girl if I didn’t; so don’t waste your strength arguing with me. You’ve been talking too much; what shall I read?”
“Don’t read me any of this new-fangled stuff. Take down ‘Huck Finn’ and read that chapter about the two crooks Huck meets on the river. You ain’t read me that lately.”