ons, for instance, were perfect
strangers to him, and all those boys and girls of the Evans's branch
have never been long enough this side of the mountains for him to know
their names, much less their temper or their lives. Yet his heirs--or
such was his wish, his great wish--must be honest men, righteous in
their dealings, and of stainless lives. If, therefore, any one among you
feels that, for reasons he need not state, he has no right to accept his
share of Anthony Westonhaugh's bounty, then that person is requested to
withdraw before this letter to his heirs is read."

Withdraw? Was the man a fool? _Withdraw?_ These cormorants! these
suckers of blood! these harpies and vultures! I laughed as I imagined
sneaking Hector, malicious Luke, or brutal John responding to this naive
appeal, and then found myself wondering why no echo of my mirth came
from the men themselves. They must have seen much more plainly than I
did the ludicrousness of their weak old kinsman's demand; yet Luke was
still, Hector was still, and even John and the three or four others I
have mentioned gave forth no audible token of disdain or surprise. I was
asking myself what sentiment of awe or fear restrained these selfish
souls, when I became conscious of a movement within, which presently
resolved itself into a departing footstep.

Some conscience there had been awakened. Some one was crossing the floor
toward the door. Who? I waited in anxious expectancy for the word which
was to enlighten me. Happily it came soon, and from the old lawyer's
lips.

"You do not feel yourself worthy?" he queried, in tones I had not heard
from him before. "Why? What have you done that you should forego an
inheritance to which these others feel themselves honestly entitled?"

The voice which answered gave both my mind and heart a shock. It was
_she_ who had risen at this call--_she_, the only true-faced person
there!

Anxiously I listened for her reply. Alas! it was one of action rather
than speech. As I afterwards heard, she simply opened her long cloak and
showed a little infant slumbering in her arms.

"This is my reason," said she. "I have sinned in the eyes of the world,
therefore I cannot take my share of Uncle Anthony's money. I did not
know he exacted an unblemished record from those he expected to enrich,
or I would not have come."

The sob which followed these last words showed at what a cost she thus
renounced a fortune of which she, of all present, p