even my fine white shirts from the shelves of the wardrobe. Yet everything belongs to poor John, who is in Australia, and who never writes to his father now. His last letter is ten years old—ten years old, my dear, and I don't need to read it over, for I know it by heart."
Tears of weakness gathered in his eyes, and began to trickle over on to his cheek.
"Oh, Cousin John will write soon, I'm sure," said Mrs. Poidevin, with easy optimism; "I shouldn't wonder if he has made a fortune, and is on his way home to you at this moment."
"Ah, he will never make a fortune, my dear, he was always too fond of change. He had excellent capabilities, Louisa, but he was too fond of change. . . . . And yet I often sit and pretend to myself he has made money, and is as proud to be with his poor old father as he used to be when quite a little lad. I plan out all we should do, and all he would say, and just how he would look. . . . . but that's only my make-believe; John will never make money, never. But I'd be glad if he would come back to the old home, though it were without a penny. For if he don't come soon, he'll find no home, and no welcome. . . . . I raised all the money I could when he went away, and now, as you know, my dear, the house and land go to you and Pedvinn. . . . . But I'd like my poor boy to have the silver and linen, and his mother's furniture and needlework to remember us by."
"Yes, cousin, and he will have them some day, but not for a great while yet, I hope."
Louis Renouf shook his head, with the immovable obstinacy of the very old or the very young.
"Louisa, mark my words, he will get nothing, nothing. Everything is going. They'll make away with the chairs and the tables next, with the very bed I lie on."
