Adoniram made a faint, gasping noise, then sat staring at them both.  Henry started, but knitted on as remorselessly as his own fate.

“How did you come by so much money?” asked Paulina Maria, in her pure, severe voice.

“I saved if from my earnings.”

“What for?”

“You’ll be welcome to take it, and use it for Henry.”

“That ain’t answering my question.”

Jerome was silent.

“You needn’t answer if you don’t want to,” said Paulina Maria, “for I know.  You’ve kept it dark from everybody but Lawyer Means and your mother and Elmira, but your mother told me a year ago.  I haven’t told a soul.  You’ve been saving up this money to build a mill with and—­I’ve been over to your mother’s this afternoon—­you are going to start it to-morrow.”

“I am not obliged to start it to-morrow,” said Jerome.

“You’re obliged to for all me.  Do you think I’ll take that money?”

Jerome turned to Henry.  “Henry, it’s for you, and not your mother,” said he.  “Will you take it?”

Henry, still knitting, shook his head.

“I tell you there is no hurry about the mill.  I can wait and earn more.  I give it to you freely.”

“We shouldn’t take it unless I give you a note of hand, Jerome,” Adoniram interposed, in a quavering voice.

Paulina Maria looked at her husband.  “What is your note of hand worth?” she asked, sternly.

“Won’t you take it, Henry?  I’ve always thought a good deal of you, and I don’t want you to be blind,” Jerome said.

Henry shook his head; there was an awful inexorableness with himself displayed in his steady knitting.

“There are things worse than blindness,” said Paulina Maria.  “Nobody shall sacrifice himself for my son.  If our own prayers and sacrifices are not sufficient, it is the will of the Lord that he should suffer, and he will suffer.”

“Take it, Henry,” pleaded Jerome, utterly disregarding her.

“Would you take it in my son’s place?” demanded Paulina Maria, suddenly.  She looked fixedly at Jerome.  “Answer me,” said she.

“That has nothing to do with it!” Jerome cried, angrily.  “He is going blind, and this money will cure him.  If you are his mother—­”

“Don’t ask anybody to take even a kindness that you wouldn’t take yourself,” said Paulina Maria.

Jerome flung out of the room without another word.  When he got out-of-doors, he found Adoniram at his elbow.

“I want ye to know that I’m much obliged to ye, J’rome,” he whispered.  He felt for Jerome’s hand and shook it.  “Thank ye, thank ye, J’rome,” he repeated, brokenly.

“I don’t want any thanks,” replied Jerome.  “Can’t you take the money and make Henry go with you to Boston and see the doctor, if she won’t?”

“It’s no use goin’ agin her, J’rome.”

“I believe she’s crazy.”

“No, she ain’t, J’rome—­no, she ain’t.  She knows how you saved up that money, an’ she won’t take it.  She’s made so she can’t take anybody else’s sufferin’ to ease hers, an’ so’s Henry—­he’s like his mother.”