My uncle took me away from here. I was only a
baby. It seemed best to--"
"Where are they now?" he asked guardedly.
The painter had disappeared behind the house. But he could hear heavy
steps on the roof over their heads.
"Both are dead," she replied briefly. "No one knew my uncle had much
money; we lived quite simply and unpretentiously in South Boston.
They never told me about the money; and all those years I was praying
for it! Well, it came to me--in time."
His eyes asked a pitying question.
"Oh, yes," she sighed. "I knew about father. They used to take me to
visit him in the prison. Of course I didn't understand, at first. But
gradually, as I grew older, I began to realize what had happened--to
him and to me. It was then I began to make plans. He would be free,
sometime; he would need a home. Once he tried to escape, with some
other men. A guard shot my father; he was in the prison-hospital a
long time. They let me see him then without bars between, because
they were sure he would die."
"For God's sake," he interrupted hoarsely. "Was there no one--?"
She shook her head.
"That was after my aunt died: I went alone. They watched me closely
at first; but afterward they were kinder. He used to talk about
home--always about home. He meant this house, I found. It was then I
made up my mind to do anything to get the money.... You see I knew he
could never be happy here unless the old wrongs were righted first. I
saw I must do all that; and when, after my uncle's death, I found
that I was rich--really rich, I came here as soon as I could.
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