"So if we don't get ten thousand dollars there by eight o'clock to-night,
we're set out on the bricks without no more home than a prairie dog--not as
much!" almost screamed Uncle Henry. "An' yet you say why talk about it?"

"But it isn't getting us anywhere--just to sit around and complain," his
nephew tried to pacify him, rising, and starting toward him again; but
Uncle Henry didn't want to be so near him, knowing what he was going to say
next. Therefore he switched adroitly to the door, and let out, "No, it
ain't gettin' us anywhere; but it would if you'd marry Angela Hardy, like I
want you to!" He was a little frightened now that he had uttered the words,
and he looked anxiously at Gilbert to see their effect. The latter remained
as calm as ever. "But I don't love her," was all he said.

Uncle Henry was exasperated now. "What's that got to do with it?" he
yelled. "Her father's rich, an' not even he, mean as he is, would foreclose
on his own son-in-law. Mebbe he'd even lend you somethin' besides," he
added, slyly. He had great faith in these neighbors down the valley.

"I can't do it," Gilbert stated, as if he were discussing going to the
nearest town.

"Won't, you mean."

"No. I mean can't--just what I said. It wouldn't be fair to her. I can't
pretend to love her when I don't."

"You don't have to," his uncle urged. "She's so crazy about you, she'd
marry you anyway." Triumphant knowledge was in his tone.