"She's rich," said Tim.

He blurted it out. As long as I had seen her and found her beautiful,
this announcement seemed uncalled for. Had she been plain of face and
figure it might have served a purpose, were my brother endeavoring to
excuse the sentimental state of mind he had disclosed to me. He knew
that the place he held in my heart was first. This had always been
true, and in our lonely innocence we had promised it should be true to
the end. There was to be a fair return. He had promised it, and now
he was learning how hard it was to keep faith. His attitude was one of
half penitence, half defiance. Had I not seen the girl, had he told me
that she was beautiful, and even rich and good, all our boyish pledges
would have been swept aside, and I should have cheered him on. But I
had seen her. She had laughed with me. Somehow we had understood each
other. And now I cared not so much what he felt for her as how she
looked on him. For once in our lives Tim and I were fencing.

"She's pretty, Tim," said I, "and rich, you say?"

"Mary has several thousand dollars," he answered. "Besides that,
she'll get all old man Warden has to leave, and that's a pretty pile."

"Little wonder she wears that Dunkard gown," said I with the faintest
sneer.

It angered Tim.

"That's not fair," he cried. "She's not that kind. Luther Warden is
all she has of kin, and if it makes him any happier to see her togged