Brewsters Millions | Page 6

my throat so tight that I wanted to cry. How long has it been since we
played up there? Yes, and how long has it been since I read 'Oliver
Optic' to you, lying there in the garret window while you sat with your
back against the wall, your blue eyes as big as dollars?"
"Oh, dear me, Monty, it was ages ago--twelve or thirteen years at
least," she cried, a soft light in her eyes.
"I'm going up there this afternoon to see what the place is like," he said
eagerly. "And, Peggy, you must come too. Maybe I can find one of
those Optic books, and we'll be young again."
"Just for old time's sake," she said impulsively. "You'll stay for
luncheon, too."
"I'll have to be at the--no, I won't, either. Do you know, I was thinking I
had to be at the bank at twelve-thirty to let Mr. Perkins go out for
something to eat? The millionaire habit isn't so firmly fixed as I
supposed." After a moment's pause, in which his growing seriousness
changed the atmosphere, he went on, haltingly, uncertain of his
position: "The nicest thing about having all this money is that--that--we
won't have to deny ourselves anything after this." It did not sound very
tactful, now that it was out, and he was compelled to scrutinize rather
intently a familiar portrait in order to maintain an air of careless
assurance. She did not respond to this venture, but he felt that she was
looking directly into his sorely-tried brain. "We'll do any amount of
decorating about the house and--and you know that furnace has been
giving us a lot of trouble for two or three years--" he was pouring out
ruthlessly, when her hand fell gently on his own and she stood straight
and tall before him, an odd look in her eyes.

"Don't--please don't go on, Monty," she said very gently but without
wavering. "I know what you mean. You are good and very thoughtful,
Monty, but you really must not."
"Why, what's mine is yours--" he began.
"I know you are generous, Monty, and I know you have a heart. You
want us to--to take some of your money,"--it was not easy to say it, and
as for Monty, he could only look at the floor. "We cannot, Monty,
dear,--you must never speak of it again. Mamma and I had a feeling
that you would do it. But don't you see,--even from you it is an offer of
help, and it hurts."
"Don't talk like that, Peggy," he implored.
"It would break her heart if you offered to give her money in that way.
She'd hate it, Monty. It is foolish, perhaps, but you know we can't take
your money."
"I thought you--that you--oh, this knocks all the joy out of it," he burst
out desperately.
"Dear Monty!"
"Let's talk it over, Peggy; you don't understand--" he began, dashing at
what he thought would be a break in her resolve.
"Don't!" she commanded, and in her blue eyes was the hot flash he had
felt once or twice before.
He rose and walked across the floor, back and forth again, and then
stood before her, a smile on his lips--a rather pitiful smile, but still a
smile. There were tears in her eyes as she looked at him.
"It's a confounded puritanical prejudice, Peggy," he said in futile
protest, "and you know it."
"You have not seen the letters that came for you this morning. They're
on the table over there," she replied, ignoring him.

He found the letters and resumed his seat in the window, glancing
half-heartedly over the contents of the envelopes. The last was from
Grant & Ripley, attorneys, and even from his abstraction it brought a
surprised "By Jove!" He read it aloud to Margaret.
September 30.
MONTGOMERY BREWSTER, ESQ.,
New York.
Dear Sir:--We are in receipt of a communication from Mr. Swearengen
Jones of Montana, conveying the sad intelligence that your uncle,
James T. Sedgwick, died on the 24th inst. at M-- Hospital in Portland,
after a brief illness. Mr. Jones by this time has qualified in Montana as
the executor of your uncle's will and has retained us as his eastern
representatives. He incloses a copy of the will, in which you are named
as sole heir, with conditions attending. Will you call at our office this
afternoon, if it is convenient? It is important that you know the contents
of the instrument at once.
Respectfully yours,
GRANT & RIPLEY.
For a moment there was only amazement in the air. Then a faint,
bewildered smile appeared in Monty's face, and reflected itself in the
girl's.
"Who is your Uncle James?" she asked.
"I've never heard of him."
"You must go to Grant & Ripley's at once,