in my life. At the end of a year it paid double, and after five
had rolled away the accumulated interest had reached such a sum
that both Philemon and myself thought it wisest to let her know
what she was worth and what was being done with the money. I was
in hopes it would lead her to make some change in her mode of
living, which seemed to me out of keeping with her appearance and
mental qualifications; while he, I imagine, looked for something
more important still--a smile on the face which had somehow lost
the trick of merriment, though it had never acquired that of ill
nature. But we did not know Agatha; at least I did not. When she
learned that she was rich, she looked at first awestruck and then
heart-pierced. Forgetting me, or ignoring me, it makes no matter
which, she threw herself into Philemon's arms and wept, while he,
poor faithful fellow, looked as distressed as if he had brought
news of failure instead of triumphant success. I suppose she
thought of her buried children, and what the money would have been
to her if they had lived; but she did not speak of them, nor am I
quite sure they were in her thoughts when, after the first
excitement was over, she drew back and said quietly, but in a tone
of strong feeling, to Philemon: 'You meant me a happy surprise,
and you must not be disappointed. This is heart money; we will use
it to make our townsfolk happy.' I saw him glance at her dress,
which was a purple calico. I remember it because of that look and
because of the sad smile with which she followed his glance. 'Can
we not afford now,' he ventured, 'a little show of luxury, or at
least a ribbon or so for this beautiful throat of yours?' She did
not answer him; but her look had a rare compassion in it, a
compassion, strange to say, that seemed to be expended upon him
rather than upon herself. Philemon swallowed his disappointment.
'Agatha is right,' he said to me. 'We do not need luxury. I do not