He was whimpering to be caressed, and she bent over his small silky head to hide the burning drops that fell from her eyes despite herself.

"If it could only be altered!--but it can't--and the only thing to do is to give the money away to those who need it as quickly as possible----" "Give it away!" answered Angus, bitterly--"Good God! Why, to give away seven or eight millions of money in the right quarters would occupy one man's lifetime!" His voice was harsh, and his hand clenched itself involuntarily as he spoke.

She looked at him in a vague fear.
"No, Mary,"-- he said--"You can't give it away--not as you imagine.
Besides,--there is more than money--there is the millionaire's house--his priceless pictures, his books--his yacht--a thousand and one other things that he possessed, and which now belong to you.

Oh Mary! I wish to God I had never seen him!" She trembled.
"Then perhaps--you and I would never have met," she murmured.
"Better so!" and rising, he paced restlessly up and down the little kitchen--"Better that I should never have loved you, Mary, than be so parted from you! By money, too! The last thing that should ever have come between us! Money! Curse it! It has ruined my life!" She lifted her tear-wet eyes to his.
"What do you mean, Angus ?" she asked, gently--"Why do you talk of parting?
The money makes no difference to our love!" "No difference?
No difference?
Oh Mary, don't you see!" and he turned upon her a face white and drawn with his inward anguish--"Do you think--can you imagine that I would marry a woman with millions of money--I--a poor devil, with nothing in the world to call my own, and no means of livelihood save in my brain, which, after all, may turn out to be quite of a worthless quality! Do you think I would live on your bounty?
Do you think I would accept money from you?
Surely you know me better! Mary, I love you! I love you with my whole heart and soul!--but I love you as the poor working woman whose work I hoped to make easier, whose life it was my soul's purpose to make happy--but,--you have everything you want in the world now!--and I--I am no use to you! I can do nothing for you--nothing!--you are David Helmsley's heiress, and with such wealth as he has left you, you might marry a prince of the royal blood if you cared--for princes are to be bought,--like anything else in the world's market! But you are not of the world--you never were--and now--now--the world will take you! The world leaves nothing alone that has any gold upon it!" She listened quietly to his passionate outburst.

She was deadly pale, and she pressed Charlie close against her bosom,--the little dog, she thought half vaguely, would love her just as well whether she was rich or poor.
"How can the world take me, Angus ?" she said--"Am I not yours ?--all yours!--and what has the world to do with me?
Do not speak in such a strange way--you hurt me----" "I know I hurt you!" he said, stopping in his restless walk and facing her--"And I know I should always hurt you--now! If David Helmsley had never crossed our path, how happy we might have been----" She raised her hand reproachfully.
"Do not blame the poor old man, even in a thought, Angus!" she said--"His dream--his last hope was that we two might be happy! He brought us together,--and I am sure, quite sure, that he hoped we would do good in the world with the money he has left us----" "Us!" interrupted Angus, meaningly.
"Yes,--surely us! For am I not to be one with you?
Oh Angus, be patient, be gentle! Think kindly of him who meant so much kindness to those whom he loved in his last days!" She smothered a rising sob, and went on entreatingly--"He has forgotten no one who was friendly to him--and--and--Angus--remember!--remember in that paper I have shown to you--that list of bequests, which he has entrusted me to pay, he has left me to you, Angus!--me--with all I possess----" She broke off, startled by the sorrow in his eyes.
"It is a legacy I cannot accept!" he said, hoarsely, his voice trembling with suppressed emotion--"I cannot take it--even though you, the most precious part of it, are the dearest thing to me in the world! I cannot! This horrible money has parted us, Mary! More than that, it has robbed me of my energy for work--I cannot work without you--and I must give you up! Even if I could curb my pride and sink my independence, and take money which I have not earned, I should never be great as a writer--never be famous.