"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 

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