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.

"You cannot deny it. Me crying to you for help! What have we talked
together?--that we would sit in a country house, and I was to look to
the flower-beds, and always have dishes of green peas for you-plenty, in
June; and you were to let the village boys know what a tongue you have,
if they made a clatter of their sticks along the garden-rails; and you
were to drink your tea, looking on a green and the sunset. Uncle! Poor
old, good old soul! You mean kindly. You must be kind. A day will make
it too late. You have the money there. You get older and older every
minute with trying to