"It will be a curse to you, uncle. Death is coming. What's money then?
Uncle, uncross your arms. You are afraid; you dare not. You carry it
about; you have no confidence anywhere. It eats your heart. Look at me.
I have nothing to conceal. Can you imitate me, and throw your hands out
--so? Why, uncle, will you let me be ashamed of you? You have the money
there.

"You cannot deny it. Me crying to you for help! What have we talked
together?--that we would sit in a country house, and I was to look to the
flower-beds, and always have dishes of green peas for you-plenty, in
June; and you were to let the village boys know what a tongue you have,
if they made a clatter of their sticks along the garden-rails; and you
were to drink your tea, looking on a green and the sunset. Uncle! Poor
old, good old soul! You mean kindly. You must be kind. A day will make
it too late. You have the money there. You get older and older every
minute with trying to refuse me. You know that I can make you happy. I
have the power, and I have the will. Help me, I say, in my great
trouble. That money is a burden. You are forced to carry it about, for
fear. You look guilty as you go running in the streets, because you fear
everybody. Do good with it. Let it be money with a blessing on it! It
will save us from horrid misery! from death! from torture and death!
Think, uncle! look, uncle! You with the money--me wanting it. I pray
to heaven, and I meet you, and you have it. Will you say that you refuse
to give it, when I see--when I show you, you are led to meet me and help
me? Open;--put down that arm."

Against this storm of mingled supplication and shadowy menace, Anthony
held out with all outward firmness until, when bidding him to put down
his arm, she touched the arm commandingly, and it fell paralyzed.