refuse me. You know that I can make you happy.
I have the power, and I have the will. Help me, I say, in my great
trouble. That money is a burden. You are forced to carry it about, for
fear. You look guilty as you go running in the streets, because you fear
everybody. Do good with it. Let it be money with a blessing on it! It
will save us from horrid misery! from death! from torture and death!
Think, uncle! look, uncle! You with the money--me wanting it. I pray to
heaven, and I meet you, and you have it. Will you say that you refuse
to give it, when I see--when I show you, you are led to meet me and help
me? Open;--put down that arm."

Against this storm of mingled supplication and shadowy menace, Anthony
held out with all outward firmness until, when bidding him to put down
his arm, she touched the arm commandingly, and it fell paralyzed.

Rhoda's eyes were not beautiful as they fixed on the object of her
quest. In this they were of the character of her mission. She was
dealing with an evil thing, and had chosen to act according to her
light, and by the counsel of her combative and forceful temper. At each
step new difficulties had to be encountered by fresh contrivances; and
money now--money alone had become the specific for present use. There
was a limitation of her spiritual vision to aught save to money; and the
money being bared to her eyes, a frightful gleam of eagerness shot from
them. Her hands met Anthony's in a common grasp of the money-bags.

"It's not mine!" Anthony cried, in desperation.

"Whose money is it?" said Rhoda, and caught up her hands as from fire.

"My Lord!" Anthony moaned, "if you don't speak like a Court o' Justice.
Hear yourself!"

"Is the money yours, uncle?"

"It--is," and "isn't" hung in the balance.

"It is not?" Rhoda dressed the question for him in the terror of
contemptuous horror.

"It is. I--of course it is; how could it help being mine? My money? Yes.
What sort o' thing's that to ask--whether what I've got's mine or yours,
or somebody else's? Ha!"

"And you say you are not rich, uncle?"

A charming congratulatory smile was addressed to him, and a shake of the
head of tender reproach irresistible to his vanity.

"Rich! with a lot o' calls on me; everybody wantin' to borrow--I'm rich!
And now you coming to me! You women can't bring a guess to bear upon the
right nature o' money."

"Uncle, you will decide to help me, I know."

She said it with a staggering assurance o