We've brought up the children to love money and show off, instead of to love us and character and self-respect--God forgive me!" The room was profoundly silent: Charles thinking drowsily, yet vividly, too, of his life; Matilda burning in anguish over the lost half, or more, of the fortune--and Charles had always been secretive about his wealth, so she didn't know how much the fortune was a year ago and couldn't judge whether much or little was left! Enough to uphold her social position?
Or only enough to keep her barely clear of the "middle class"?
Soon Whitney's voice broke in upon her torments.

"I've been thinking a great deal, this last week, about Hiram Ranger." Matilda, startled, gave him a wild look.

"Charles!" she exclaimed.
"Exactly," said Whitney, a gleam of enjoyment in his dull eyes.
In fact, ever since Hiram's death his colossal figure had often dominated the thoughts of Charles and Matilda Whitney.

The will had set Charles to observing, to _seeing_; it had set Matilda to speculating on the possibilities of her own husband's stealthy relentlessness.

At these definite, dreadful words of his, her vague alarms burst into a deafening chorus, jangling and clanging in her very ears.
"Arthur Ranger," continued Whitney, languid and absent, "has got out of the beaten track of business--" "Yes; look at Hiram's children!" urged Matilda.