The old gentleman's office was in a wing of his big yellow house of
colonial architecture, and was entered by means of a glass door, which
now stood open in the balmy warmth of an early June day.
Stepping within, she found him reading a paper, from which he glanced up
to scowl inquiringly at her over his glasses, afterwards relaxing his
brows a trifle as he observed,--
"Oh, it's you, Sara: come in, come in! Here's a seat. Now, what can I do
for you?"
"Thank you, squire; I came to get some money if you please."
"Money? Oh, yes, certainly. Want to borrow a little, eh? Well, I guess I
could accommodate you; how much?"
She looked up inquiringly. "Not to borrow, squire; but I've had extra
expenses, as you know; and, as father always leaves his money with you"--
The squire put down his paper, and looked at her so queerly the sentence
died on her lips.
"I haven't any money of your father's--don't you know? He drew it all
just before he sailed, and took it home; said his wife wanted him to.
She had dreamed of a good place to hide it in, I believe."
He smiled sarcastically as he made the explanation; and Sara, in her new
tenderness toward the dead mother, resented this smile.
"Mother was a good manager," she said warmly, "and father always trusted
her.
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