Brother Ben drew his hand across his eyes and the sound of suppressed sobs filled the room.
"My husband is dead, if he was any relation to you; so we don't want you here," Mrs. Carew said to him, brutally.
He started back as if she had struck him, and said, sadly:
"Yes, I heard that he was dead, and I wished it had been me instead. I ain't much 'count in the world, no-how; but the neighbors said: 'Ben, you ought to go up to Boston and get your share of your brother's property.' Vince left me something, I know. He always said he would without my ever asking."
"He left you nothing. I don't believe in you, anyway. You're an impostor, I'm sure. So get out of this at once!" insisted Mrs. Carew. But he did not stir.
"I want to stay and visit you, sister-in-law, and see the city sights," he pleaded.
"Go; I won't have you here! You are a disgrace to the house!" she said, angrily, but still inwardly appalled, for, in spite of his rough looks and country manners, he was wonderfully like the dead brother he claimed. In voice, features, and gesture he recalled the dead.
He stood staring in pained amazement at the inhospitable woman, when suddenly a little hand stole into his, and a tearful voice murmured:
"Uncle Ben, I believe in you and I love you, for you are so like my dear, dead papa that it makes my heart glad just to see and hear you."
He looked down into the face of a lovely, dark-eyed girl, whose lips were trembling with a hushed sob, and exclaimed: