"I shall never have it to do good or evil with, uncle; but if I had, I
would _endeavor_, for God's sake, to bestow it where it was needed; and
because it would be offered for the love of Him, my works would not
fall useless or fruitless to the earth. HE would bless and aid me."

"Profit--gain--loss," again muttered the old man. "But, as you will
never inherit a fortune, I suppose your good intentions must suffice."

"Yes, sir, for the present."

"And, now that you have nothing to expect from me, of course you will
feel quite independent of me and my wishes. If I should be ill, I
suppose you'd take off and leave me to my fate," he said, bitterly.

"No, sir," she said, calmly; "but words and professions are mere
sentences written in sand--the first wave washes them out. I don't
want a fortune. I would not have gold, as I live, sir, except as the
minister of my good purposes, the slave on which I could set my heel,
unless it served me to lay up treasure in heaven. And should you be
ill, dear uncle, I trust you will find no disposition in me to shrink
from my duty."

"There it is again," he murmured, as he got up, and walked to and fro.
"Profit--loss--gain. Give me my candle; I must go to bed--I feel very
weary and tired."

"Shall I get anything for you, sir?"

"No," he replied.