“It is a shame!” she cried, angrily. “Uncle Jacob always gave Henry and me to understand that we should be his heirs; and now we have to lose half a million apiece. How under the sun do you suppose he lost it?”
“I have no idea—some speculation, doubtless.”
“It appears that he expects to be taken care of in his old age just the same as if he were the Crœsus we have always supposed him to be,” Mrs. Richards said, wrathfully.
“He has a right to expect it,” her husband replied, with some sternness; “you have always professed the deepest affection for him, and urged him to make his home with you. Who should take care of him in his misfortune if not his only brother’s children?”
“Henry is as well able to have him as I am, and I don’t see why he could not have staid there.”
“Perhaps he was no more welcome there than it appears he will be here,” Mr. Richards remarked, sarcastically.
“Well, I’m not going to have him here, and there’s an end of the matter. I shall post him right back to Henry. His wife does not have half the care that I do, socially. We might as well open a hospital for the lame, the blind, the halt, and beggars generally.”
“I am astonished to hear you speak thus, Ellen, and of your own relatives, too, especially after all your flattering protestations. Of course we will receive your uncle kindly, and show him all proper attention.”
“I will not,” his wife retorted, angrily. “I may as well set my foot down first as last; he shall not come here to be a burden upon us. You have had your way about Stella; now I’ll have mine in this matter. One beggar in the house is enough.”
“Ellen, how you are changed! When I first knew you, you were sweet-tempered and kind. I believe your life of unlimited indulgence and luxury has soured and hardened you,” Mr. Richards said, with a regretful sigh for the early days of his married life, when his wife was loving and lovable.