arms, was startling—laughable. Anthony could not have flipped with his fingers fifty times in the interval; he was sure of it, "or not much more," he said. So the City was shut to him behind iron bars.
Up in the West there is not so much to be dreaded from the rapacity of men. You do not hear of such alarming burglaries there every day; every hand is not at another's throat there, or in another's pocket; at least, not until after nightfall; and when the dark should come on, Anthony had determined to make for his own quarter with all speed. Darkness is horrible in foreign places, but foreign places are not so accusing to you by daylight.
The Park was vastly pleasant to the old man.
"Ah!" he sniffed, "country air," and betook himself to a seat. "Extraordinary," he thought, "what little people they look on their horses and in their carriages! That's the aristocracy, is it!" The aristocracy appeared oddly diminutive to him. He sneered at the aristocracy, but, beholding a policeman, became stolid of aspect. The policeman was a connecting link with his City life, the true lord of his fearful soul. Though the moneybags were under his arm, beneath his buttoned coat, it required a deep pause before he understood what he had done; and then the Park began to dance and curve like the streets, and there was a singular curtseying between the heavens and the earth. He had to hold his money-bags tight, to keep them from plunging into monstrous gulfs. "I don't remember that I've taken a drink of any sort," he said, "since I and the old farmer took our turn down in the Docks. How's this?" He seemed to rock. He was near upon indulging in a fit of terror; but the impolicy of it withheld him from any demonstration, save an involuntary spasmodic ague. When this had passed, his eyesight and sensations grew clearer, and he sat in a mental doze, looking at things with quiet animal observation. His recollection of the state, after a lapse of minutes, was pleasurable. The necessity for motion, however, set him on his feet, and off he went, still Westward, out of the Park, and into streets. He trotted at a good pace. Suddenly came a call of his name in his ear, and he threw up one arm in self-defence.
"Uncle Anthony, don't you know me?"
"Eh? I do; to be sure I do," he answered, peering dimly upon Rhoda: "I'm always meeting one of you."
"I've been down in the City, trying to find you all day, uncle. I meet you—I might have missed! It is direction from heaven, for I prayed."
Anthony muttered, "I'm out for a holiday."
"This"—Rhoda pointed to a house—"is where I am lodging."
"Oh!" said Anthony; "and how's your family?"
Rhoda perceived that he was rather distraught. After great persuasion, she got him to go upstairs with her.
"Only for two seconds," he stipulated. "I can't sit."
"You will have a cup of tea with me, uncle?"
"No; I don't think I'm equal to tea."
"Not with Rhoda?"
"It's a name in Scripture," said Anthony, and he drew nearer to her.
"You're comfortable and dark here, my dear. How did you come here?
What's happened? You won't surprise me."
"I'm only stopping for a day or two in London, uncle."
"Ah! a wicked place; that it is. No wickeder than other places, I'll be bound. Well; I must be trotting. I can't sit, I tell you. You're as dark here as a gaol."
"Let me ring for candles, uncle."
"No; I'm going."
She tried to touch him, to draw him to a chair. The agile old man bounded away from her, and she had to pacify him submissively before he would consent to be seated. The tea-service was brought, and Rhoda made tea, and filled a cup for him. Anthony began to enjoy the repose of the room. But it made the money-bags' alien to him, and serpents in his bosom. Fretting—on his chair, he cried: "Well! well! what's to talk about? We can't drink tea and not talk!"
Rhoda deliberated, and then said: "Uncle, I think you have always loved me."
It seemed to him a merit that he should have loved her. He caught at the idea.
"So I have, Rhoda, my dear; I have. I do."
"You do love me, dear uncle!"
"Now I come to think of it, Rhoda—my Dody, I don't think ever I've loved anybody else. Never loved e'er a young woman in my life. As a young man."
"Tell me, uncle; are you not very rich?"
"No, I ain't; not 'very'; not at all."
"You must not tell untruths, uncle."
"I don't," said Anthony; only, too doggedly to instil conviction.
"I have always felt, uncle, that you love money too much. What is the value of money, except to give comfort, and help you to be a blessing to others in their trouble? Does not God lend it you for that purpose? It is most true! And if you make a store of it, it will only be unhappiness to yourself. Uncle, you love me. I am in great trouble for money."
Anthony made a long arm over the projection of his coat, and clasped it securely; sullenly refusing to answer. "Dear uncle; hear me out. I come to you, because I know you are rich. I was on my way to your lodgings when we met; we were thrown together. You have more money than you know what to do with. I am a beggar to you for money. I have never asked before; I never shall ask again. Now I pray for your help. My life, and the life dearer to me than any other, depend on you. Will you help me, Uncle Anthony? Yes!"
"No!" Anthony shouted.
"Yes! yes!"
"Yes, if I can. No, if I can't. And 'can't' it is. So, it's 'No.'"
Rhoda's bosom sank, but only as a wave in the sea-like energy of her spirit.
"Uncle, you must."
Anthony was restrained from jumping up and running away forthwith by the peace which was in the room, and the dread of being solitary after he had tasted of companionship.
"You have money, uncle. You are rich. You must help me. Don't you ever think what it is to be an old man, and no one to love you and be grateful to you? Why do you cross your arms so close?"
Anthony denied that he crossed his arms closely.
Rhoda pointed to his arms in evidence; and he snarled out: "There, now; 'cause I'm supposed to have saved a trifle, I ain't to sit as I like. It's downright too bad! It's shocking!"
But, seeing that he did not uncross his arms, and remained bunched up defiantly, Rhoda silently observed him. She felt that money was in the room.
"Don't let it be a curse to you," she said. And her voice was hoarse with agitation.
"What?" Anthony asked. "What's a curse?"
"That."
Did she know? Had she guessed? Her finger was laid in a line at the bags. Had she smelt the gold?
"It will be a curse to you, uncle. Death is coming. What's money then? Uncle, uncross your arms. You are afraid; you dare not. You carry it about; you have no confidence anywhere. It eats your heart. Look at me. I have nothing to conceal. Can you imitate me, and throw your hands out —so? Why, uncle, will you let me be ashamed of you? You have the
