Rhoda deliberated, and then said:  “Uncle, I think you have always loved me.”

It seemed to him a merit that he should have loved her.  He caught at the idea.

“So I have, Rhoda, my dear; I have.  I do.”

“You do love me, dear uncle!”

“Now I come to think of it, Rhoda—­my Dody, I don’t think ever I’ve loved anybody else.  Never loved e’er a young woman in my life.  As a young man.”

“Tell me, uncle; are you not very rich?”

“No, I ain’t; not ‘very’; not at all.”

“You must not tell untruths, uncle.”

“I don’t,” said Anthony; only, too doggedly to instil conviction.

“I have always felt, uncle, that you love money too much.  What is the value of money, except to give comfort, and help you to be a blessing to others in their trouble?  Does not God lend it you for that purpose?  It is most true!  And if you make a store of it, it will only be unhappiness to yourself.  Uncle, you love me.  I am in great trouble for money.”

Anthony made a long arm over the projection of his coat, and clasped it securely; sullenly refusing to answer.  “Dear uncle; hear me out.  I come to you, because I know you are rich.  I was on my way to your lodgings when we met; we were thrown together.  You have more money than you know what to do with.  I am a beggar to you for money.  I have never asked before; I never shall ask again.  Now I pray for your help.  My life, and the life dearer to me than any other, depend on you.  Will you help me, Uncle Anthony?  Yes!”

“No!” Anthony shouted.

“Yes! yes!”

“Yes, if I can.  No, if I can’t.  And ‘can’t’ it is.  So, it’s ‘No.’”

Rhoda’s bosom sank, but only as a wave in the sea-like energy of her spirit.

“Uncle, you must.”

Anthony was restrained from jumping up and running away forthwith by the peace which was in the room, and the dread of being solitary after he had tasted of companionship.

“You have money, uncle.  You are rich.  You must help me.  Don’t you ever think what it is to be an old man, and no one to love you and be grateful to you?  Why do you cross your arms so close?”

Anthony denied that he crossed his arms closely.

Rhoda pointed to his arms in evidence; and he snarled out:  “There, now; ’cause I’m supposed to have saved a trifle, I ain’t to sit as I like.  It’s downright too bad!  It’s shocking!”

But, seeing that he did not uncross his arms, and remained bunched up defiantly, Rhoda silently observed him.  She felt that money was in the room.

“Don’t let it be a curse to you,” she said.  And her voice was hoarse with agitation.

“What?” Anthony asked.  “What’s a curse?”

“That.”

Did she know?  Had she guessed?  Her finger was laid in a line at the bags.  Had she smelt the gold?

“It will be a curse to you, uncle.  Death is coming.  What’s money then?  Uncle, uncross your arms.  You are afraid; you dare not.  You carry it about; you have no confidence anywhere.  It eats your heart.  Look at me.  I have nothing to conceal.  Can you imitate me, and throw your hands out—­so?  Why, uncle, will you let me be ashamed of you?  You have the money there.