"I should like to put it into her power to do some of the things she wants. She wants to see the world, for instance. I should like to put money in her purse."
"Ah, I am glad you have thought of that," said the old man. "But I have thought of it too. I have left her a legacy—five thousand pounds."
"That is capital; it is very kind of you. But I should like to do a little more."
Something of that veiled acuteness with which it had been, on Daniel Touchett's part, the habit of a lifetime to listen to a financial proposition, still lingered in the face in which the invalid had not obliterated the man of business. "I shall be happy to consider it," he said, softly.
"Isabel is poor, then. My mother tells me that she has but a few hundred dollars a year. I should like to make her rich."
"What do you mean by rich?"
"I call people rich when they are able to gratify their imagination. Isabel has a great deal of imagination."
"So have you, my son," said Mr. Touchett, listening very attentively, but a little confusedly.
"You tell me I shall have money enough for two. What I want is that you should kindly relieve me of my superfluity and give it to Isabel. Divide my inheritance into two equal halves, and give the second half to her."
"To do what she likes with?"
"Absolutely what she likes."
"And without an equivalent?"
"What equivalent could there be?"
"The one I have already mentioned."
"Her marrying—some one or other? It's just to do away with anything of that sort that I make my suggestion. If she
