She dusted the bureau abstractedly with her checked apron and
then stood looking wistfully into the mirror.

"Is that so? If he'd give me three million I wouldn't take it,"
answered Christopher.

"It seems a mistake, dear," said Cynthia softly; "of course, I'd
hate to oblige Fletcher, too, but we are so poor, and the money
would mean so much to us. I used to feel as you do, but somehow I
seem all worn out now--soul as well as body. I haven't the
strength left to hate."

"Well, I have," returned Christopher shortly, "and I'll have it
when I'm gasping over my last breath. You needn't bother about
that business, Cynthia; I can keep up the family record on my own
account. What's the proverb about us--'a Blake can hate twice as
long as most men can love'--that's my way, you know."

"You didn't finish it," said Cynthia, turning from the bureau;
"it's all downstairs in the 'Life of Bolivar Blake'; you remember
Colonel Byrd got it off in a toast at a wedding breakfast, and
Great-grandfather Bolivar was so proud of it he had it carved
above his library door."

"High and mighty old chap, wasn't he? But what's the rest?"

"What he really said was: 'A Blake can hate twice as long as most
men can love, and love twice as long as most men can live.'"

Christopher looked down suddenly at his great bronzed hands. "Oh,