So I returned again to my books, and to the silent but no less active
antagonism toward my aunt. Yet, I would not paint her treatment of me in
too gloomy colors. Doubtless I gave her much just cause for offense, for
I had grown into a surly and quick-tempered boy, with raw places ever
open to her touch. That she loved her children I know well, and her love
for them was at the bottom of her dislike for me. I have learned long
since that there is no heart wholly bad and selfish.

While my grandfather yet lived, I think she had some hope that something
would happen to make me an outcast utterly, but after his death this hope
vanished, and she sent for me one morning to come to her. I found her
seated in the selfsame chair in which I had first seen him, and the
table was still littered with papers and accounts.

"Good-morning, Thomas," she said politely enough, as I entered, and, as I
returned her greeting, motioned me to a chair. She seemed to hesitate at
a beginning, and in the moment of silence that followed, I saw that her
face was growing thinner, and that her hair was streaked with gray.

"I have sent for you, Thomas," she said at last, "to find out what your
intention is with regard to this estate. You know, of course, that your
father forfeited it voluntarily, and that you have no moral claim to it.
Still, the law might sustain your claim, should you choose to assert it."

"I shall not choose to assert it," I answered coldly, and as I spoke, her
face was suffused with sudden joy. "I promised my father never to claim
it,--never to take it unless it were offered to me openly and
freely,--and I intend to keep my promise."