"You are very pale, uncle."

"Eh? you don't say that?"

"You are awfully white, dear uncle."

"I'll look in the glass," said Anthony. "No, I won't." He sank back in
his chair. "Rhoda, we're all sinners, ain't we? All--every man and
woman of us, and baby, too. That's a comfort; yes, it is a comfort.
It's a tremendous comfort--shuts mouths. I know what you're going to
say--some bigger sinners than others. If they're sorry for it, though,
what then? They can repent, can't they?"

"They must undo any harm they may have done. Sinners are not to repent
only in words, uncle."

"I've been feeling lately," he murmured.

Rhoda expected a miser's confession.

"I've been feeling, the last two or three days," he resumed.

"What, uncle?"

"Sort of taste of a tremendous nice lemon in my mouth, my dear, and liked
it, till all of a sudden I swallowed it whole--such a gulp! I felt it
just now. I'm all right."

"No, uncle," said Rhoda: "you are not all right: this money makes you