“What things, Chet?” Carolyn May asked anxiously, hoping that Uncle Joe had shown some recovered interest in Miss Amanda and that Chet had noticed it.
“Why—well—Now, you see, there’s that house you used to live in. You know about that?”
“What about it, Chet?” the little girl asked rather timidly. “Do you mean where I lived with my mamma and papa before they—they went away?”
“Yes. That’s the place.”
“It was an apartment,” explained Carolyn May.
“Yep. Well, Mr. Stagg ain’t never done nothin’ about it. He ain’t sold it, nor sold the furniture, nor nothin’. You know, Car’lyn May, your folks didn’t leave you no money.”
“Oh! Didn’t they?” cried Carolyn May, greatly startled.
“No. You see, I heard all about it. Mr. Vickers, the lawyer, came in here one day, and your uncle read a letter to him out loud. I couldn’t help but hear. The letter was from another lawyer and ’twas all about you and your concerns. I heard it all,” said the quite innocent Chet. He had never been taught that it was wrong to listen to other people’s private matters and to repeat them.
Carolyn May’s lips expressed a round “O” of wonder and surprise. Like his mother, Chet Gormley did not have to be urged when he was telling a bit of news. He was too deeply interested in it himself.
“And Mr. Vickers says: ‘So the child hasn’t anything of her own, Joe?’” Chet went on. “And your uncle says: ‘Not a dollar, ’cept what I might sell that furniture for,’ And he hasn’t sold it yet, I know. He just can’t make up his mind to do it, it seems.