"
"That's the pesky part on 't: there's such a lot to choose from; I
don't know much about any of 'em," began Uncle Enos, looking like a
perplexed raven with a treasure which it cannot decide where to
hide.
"Whose fault is that, sir?"
The question hit the old man full in the conscience, and he winced,
remembering how many of Betsey's charitable impulses he had nipped
in the bud, and now all the accumulated alms she would have been so
glad to scatter weighed upon him heavily. He rubbed his bald head
with a yellow bandana, and moved uneasily in his chair, as if he
wanted to get up and finish the neglected job that made his
helplessness so burdensome.
"I'll ponder on 't a spell, and make up my mind," was all he said,
and never renewed the subject again.
But he had very little time to ponder, and he never did make up his
mind; for a few months after Christie's long visit ended, Uncle Enos
"was took suddin'," and left all he had to her.
Not an immense fortune, but far larger than she expected, and great
was her anxiety to use wisely this unlooked-for benefaction. She was
very grateful, but she kept nothing for herself, feeling that
David's pension was enough, and preferring the small sum he earned
so dearly to the thousands the old man had hoarded up for years.
Pages:
467
468
469
470
471
472
473
474
475
476
477
478
479
480
481
482
483
484
485
486
487
488
489
490
491