I want you to do for me, Uncle Peter," he said, drawing his
arm closer till his own fresh cheek almost touched the head of the older
man. "Please, don't refuse."

"Refuse, my dear boy! I am too happy to-day to refuse anything. Come,
out with it."

"I am going to give you half of this money. I love you better than any
one in this world except Ruth, and I want you to have it."

Peter threw up his hands and sprang to his feet.

"What!--You want to--Why, Jack! Are you crazy! Me! My dear boy, it's
very lovely of you to wish to do it, but just think. Oh, you dear
Jack! No!--no, no!" He was beating the air now deprecatingly with his
outspread fingers as he strode around the room, laughing short laughs in
his effort to keep back the tears.

Jack followed him in his circuit, talking all the while, until he had
penned the old gentleman in a corner between the open desk and the
window.

"But, Uncle Peter--think what you have done for me! Do you suppose for
one moment that I don't know that it was you and not I who sold the
property? Do you think Mr. Guthrie would have added that five thousand
dollars to the price if he hadn't wanted to help you as well as me?"

"Five thousand dollars, my dear Jack, is no more to Robert Guthrie than
a ferry ticket is to you or me. He gave you the full price because
you trusted to his honesty and told him the truth, and he saw your
inexperience."

"No--it was YOU he was thinking of, I tell you," protested Jack, with
eager emphasis. "He would never have sent Ballantree for me had you not
talked to him--and it has been so with everything since I knew you. You
have been father, friend, everybody to me. You gave me Ruth and my work.
Everything I am I owe to you. You must--you SHALL have half of this
money! Ruth and I can be married, and that is all we want, and what is
left I can put into our new work to help Mr. MacFarlane. Please, Uncle
Peter!--we will both be so much happier if we know you share it with
us." Here his voice rose and a strain of determination rang through it.
"And, by George!--Uncle Peter, the more I think of it, the more I am
convinced that it is fair. It's yours--not mine. I WILL have it that
way--you are getting old, and you need it."

Peter broke into a laugh. It was the only way he could keep down the
tears.

"What a dear boy you are, Jack," he said, backing toward the sofa and
regaining his seat. "You've got a heart as big as a house, and I'm proud
of you, but no--n