The George Barr McCutcheon MEGAPACK ®. George Barr McCutcheon

      “And fifty-cent possibilities,” she added.

      “Really, though, I’ll never get as much joy out of my abundant riches as I did out of financial embarrassments.”

      “But think how fine it is, Monty, not ever to wonder where your winter’s overcoat is to come from and how long the coal will last, and all that.”

      “Oh, I never wondered about my overcoats; the tailor did the wondering. But I wish I could go on living here just as before. I’d a heap rather live here than at that gloomy place on the avenue.” “That sounded like the things you used to say when we played in the garret. You’d a heap sooner do this than that—don’t you remember?”

      “That’s just why I’d rather live here, Peggy. Last night I fell to thinking of that old garret, and hanged if something didn’t come up and stick in 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, of course.”

      “Have you forgotten, Peggy,” he replied, with a hint of vexation in his voice, “that we are to read ‘Oliver Optic’ this afternoon?”

      CHAPTER IV

      A SECOND

      “You are both fortunate and unfortunate, Mr. Brewster,” said Mr. Grant, after the young man had dropped into a chair in the office of Grant & Ripley the next day. Montgomery wore a slightly bored expression, and it was evident that he took little interest in the will of James T. Sedgwick. From far back in the recesses of memory he now recalled this long-lost brother of his mother. As a very small child he had seen his Uncle James upon the few occasions which brought him to the home of Mr. and Mrs. Robert Brewster. But the young man had dined at the Drews the night before and Barbara had had more charm for him than usual. It was of her that he was thinking when he walked into the office of Swearengen Jones’s lawyers.

      “The truth is, Mr. Grant, I’d completely forgotten the existence of an uncle,” he responded.

      “It is not surprising,” said Mr. Grant, genially. “Every one who knew him in New York nineteen or twenty years ago believed him to be dead. He left the city when you were a very small lad, going to Australia, I think. He was off to seek his fortune, and he needed it pretty badly when he started out. This letter from Mr. Jones comes like a message from the dead. Were it not that we have known Mr. Jones for a long time, handling affairs of considerable importance for him, I should feel inclined to doubt the whole story. It seems that your uncle turned up in Montana about fifteen years ago and there formed a stanch friendship with old Swearengen Jones, one of the richest men in the far West. Sedgwick’s will was signed on the day of his death, September 24th, and it was quite natural that Mr. Jones should be named as his executor. That is how we became interested in the matter, Mr. Brewster.”

      “I see,” said Montgomery, somewhat puzzled. “But why do you say that I am both fortunate and unfortunate?”

      “The situation is so remarkable that you’ll consider that a mild way of putting it when you’ve heard everything. I think you were told, in our note of yesterday, that you are the sole heir. Well, it may surprise you to learn that James Sedgwick died possessed of an estate valued at almost seven million dollars.”