He tried gently to lead his thoughts away from what seemed to be troubling him, for his head turned restlessly on the pillow.

“You have no need to think of that,” he said kindly and quietly, “for as you have just been saying, John will inherit nothing but well-earned property.”

“John does not know of this,” said Augustus.  “I have drawn it out for years by degrees, as he supposed, for household expenses.  It is all in Bank of England notes.  Every month that I lived it would have become more and more.”

Uncommonly circumstantial this!

“It contains seventeen hundred pounds; take it in your hand, and hear me.”

“Yes, uncle.”

“You cannot live on a very small income.  You have evidently very little notion of the value of money.  You and John may not agree.  It may not suit him to have you with him; on the other hand—­on the other hand—­what was I saying?”

“That it might not suit John to have me with him.”

“Yes, yes; but, on the other hand (where is it gone), on the other hand, it might excite his curiosity, his surprise, if I left you more in my will.  Now what am I doing this for?  What is it?  Daniel’s son?  Yes.”

“Dear uncle, try to collect your thoughts; there is something you want me to do with this money, try to tell me what it is.”

“Have you got it in your hand?”

“Yes, I have.”

“Keep it then, and use it for your own purposes.”

“Thank you.  Are you sure that is what you meant?  Is that all?”

“Is that all?  No.  I said you were not to tell John.”

“Will you tell him yourself then?” asked Valentine.  “I do not think he would mind my having it.”

By way of answer to this, the old man actually laughed.  Valentine had thought he was long past that, but it was a joyful laugh, and almost exultant.

“Mind,” he said, “my John!  No; you attend to my desire, and to all I have said.  Also it is agreed between me and my son that if ever you two part company, he is to give you a thousand pounds.  I tell you this that you may not suppose it has anything to do with the money in that parcel.  Your father was everything to me,” he continued, his voice getting fainter, and his speech more confused, as he went on, “and—­and I never expected to see him again in this world.  And so you have come over to see me, Daniel?  Give me your hand.  Come over to see me, and there are no lights!  God has been very good to me, brother, and I begin to think He will call me into his presence soon.”

Valentine started up, and it was really more in order to carry out the old man’s desires, so solemnly expressed, than from any joy of possession, that he put the parcel into his pocket before he rang for the nurse and went to fetch John.

He had borne a part in the last-sustained conversation the old man ever held, and that day month, in just such a snow-storm as had fallen about his much-loved brother, his stately white head was laid in the grave.