The overheated, inclement room waited.  Hugh restrained his foot from twitching.  Why didn’t Aunt Maria say something?  She was behaving abominably.  She was still seething with her suppressed outburst like a tea-kettle under the cozy of civilization.  And it was catching.

“I explained at the time, three years ago,” Mrs. Shirley made the plunge, “why I took the—­money at all.”  The hard word was out, and Hugh relaxed.  “I don’t know what you thought of me, but at the time it seemed like the mercy of Heaven.  I had to educate the children.  We were horribly poor.  I was almost in despair.  And I felt that if I could take it from any one I could take it from him ...”

“Yes,” said Hugh, unhappily.  The depression that dropped on him at intervals seemed waiting to pounce.  He glanced at his uncle’s judicial mask, knowing utterly the distaste for sentimental encounters that it covered.  He detested his aunt’s aloofness.  He was almost angry with this little woman’s ingenuousness that put her so candidly at their cynical mercy.

“But now,” she went on, “some land we have that seemed worth nothing at the time has become very valuable.  The town grew out in that direction.  And my eldest boy is doing very well indeed, and my daughter is studying for a library position.”

“The short and simple annals of the poor,” sighed Hugh to Hugh.

“And so,” said little Mrs. Shirley, with astounding simplicity, “I came to ask you please to take it back again.”  She gave an involuntary sigh of relief, as though she had returned a rather valuable umbrella.  Mr. Fowl’s eyeglasses dropped from his nose as his eyebrows shot up.

“Good Lord!” ejaculated Miss Maria with all the unexpectedness of Galatea.  “You don’t really mean it?” Her bag slid to the floor and the cat became thoroughly intrigued.

“Do I understand you to say”—­Mr. Fowler’s voice was almost stirred—­“that you wish to return my brother’s legacy to the family?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Shirley, “only, it wasn’t a legacy.  It was merely kindness that let me have it.  You never can know how kind it was.  But we can get on without it now.”

Mr. Fowler cleared his throat.  To Hugh his manner faintly suggested the cat busy with the yarn, full of a sort of devout curiosity.  “Pardon me,” he said, gently, “but are you sure—­have you given this matter sufficient thought?  The sum is a considerable one.  Your children—­”

“I have talked it over with them.  They feel just as I do.”

“A very proper feeling,” said Miss Fowler, approvingly.  “I must say that I never expected it.  I shall add part of my share of it to the Marian Fowler Ward in the Home for Deficient Children.  A most worthy charity.  Perhaps I could interest you—­”

“Oh, that would be lovely!” cried Mrs. Shirley.  “Anything for children....  I’ve already spoken to my cousin, who is a lawyer, about transferring the securities back to you.”