Part 28

He was silent, curious, amused.

"I think I do," she repeated; "I have never seen my father's will."

"Doubtless your lawyer has it," he suggested.

"No; I have it. It is in a steel box; I have the key hanging around my neck inside my clothes. I have never opened the box."

"But why do you not open the box?" asked Lansing, smiling.

She hesitated; color crept into her cheeks. "I have waited," she said; "I was alone; my father said--that--that--" She stammered; the rich flush deepened to her neck.

Lansing, completely nonplussed, sat watching the wonderful beauty of that young face.

"My father told me to open it only when I found an honest man in the world," she said, slowly.

The undertone of pathos in her voice drove the smile from Lansing's lips.

"Have you found the world so dishonest?" he asked, seriously.

"I don't know; I came from Notre Dame de Sainte Croix last year. Mr. Munn was my guardian; ... said he was; ... I suppose he is."

Lansing looked at her in sympathy.

"I am not one of the community," she said. "I only stay because I have no other home but this. I have no money, ... at least I know of none that is mine." Lansing was silent and attentive.

"I--I heard your voice; ... I wanted to speak to you--to hear you speak to me," she said. A new timidity came into her tone; she raised her head. "I--somehow when you spoke--I felt that you--you were honest." She stammered again, but Lansing's cool voice brought her out of her difficulty and painful shyness.

"What is your name?" she asked.

"I'm Dr. Lansing," he said.

"Will you open my steel box and read my papers for me?" she inquired, innocently.

"I will--if you wish," he said, impulsively; "if you think it wise. But I think you had better read the papers for yourself."

"Why, I can't read," she said, apparently surprised that he should not know it.

"You mean that you were not taught to read in your convent school?" he asked, incredulously.

A curious little sound escaped her lips; she raised both slender hands and unpinned her hat. Then she turned her head to his.

The deep-blue beauty of her eyes thrilled him; then he started and leaned forward, closer, closer to her exquisite face.

"My child," he cried, softly, "my poor child!" And she smiled and fingered the straw hat in her lap.

"Will you read my father's papers for me?" she said.

"Yes--yes--if you wish. Yes, indeed!" After a moment he said: "How long have you been blind?"

That evening, at dusk, Lansing came into the club, and went directly to his room. He carried a small, shabby satchel; and when he had locked his door he opened the satchel and drew from it a flat steel box.

For half an hour he sat by his open window in the quiet starlight, considering the box, turning it over and over in his hands. At length he opened his trunk, placed the box inside, locked the trunk, and noiselessly left the room.

He encountered Coursay in the hall, and started to pass him with an abstracted nod, then changed his mind and slipped his arm through the arm of his young kinsman.