"I scarcely know. It was because of pride, perhaps.... I was his servant. He paid me well. I could not permit him to overpay my poor services.... And he has other children, and grandchildren, with whose proper claims I would not permit myself—or him—to interfere. No, it was unthinkable—however kindly meant——"
"That," said I impatiently, "smacks of a too Scotch and stubborn conscience, does it not, Penelope?"
"Stubborn Scotch pride, I fear. For it is not in my Scottish nature to accept benefits for which I never can hope to render service in return."
"Imaginary obligation!" said I scornfully, yet admiring the independence which, naked and defenceless, prefers to spin its own raiment rather than accept the divided cloak of charity.
And it was plain to me that this girl was no beggar, no passive accepter of bounties unearned from anybody. And now I was secretly chagrined and ashamed that I had so postured before her as My Lord Bountiful, and had offered her the Summer House who had refused a modest fortune from a good old man who loved her and who had some excuse and reason to so deal by one to whom his bodily comfort had long been beholden.
"Few," said I, "would have put aside so agreeable an opportunity for ease and comfort in life. I fear you were foolish, Penelope."
She smiled at me: "There is a family saying, 'A Grant grants but never accepts'.... I have youth, health, two arms, two legs, and a pair of steady eyes. If these can not keep me alive through the world's journey, then I ought to perish and make room for another."
"What do you meditate to keep you?" I asked uneasily.
"For the present," said she, still smiling, "what I am doing is well enough to keep me in food and clothes and lodging."
At first I did not understand her, then an odd suspicion seized me; for I remembered during the last two weeks, when I lay sick, hearing strange voices in her ante-chamber, and strange people coming and going in the passageway.