“But you did not answer my question,” Editha persisted; “would you think that I had done right if I had not wished to give you this money and withheld it from you?”
“N-o,” he admitted, reluctantly.
“And, morally speaking, it does not belong to me.”
“The will gave you everything——”
“That is not the question,” she interrupted. “If you were pleading the case for some one else, you would claim that the money did not belong to me, and that, morally speaking, I had no right whatever to it?”
“Editha, you should be a lawyer yourself.”
“That is a side issue; as they say in court, stick to the point, if you please,” she again interrupted; “have I not stated the truth?”
“I am obliged to confess that you have; but, Editha, I do not want the money, though I am very grateful to Mr. Forrester for his kindness in remembering me, and to you for wishing to carry out his wishes so faithfully.”
“Please, Earle, take it; I want you to have it, and I wish to do just as he told me to do; you will wound me deeply if you refuse it,” she urged.
It was a very sweet, earnest face that looked up into his, and, had she pleaded for almost anything else, Earle would have found it impossible to resist her. His own face grew grave, almost sorrowful, as he returned: