but a similar experience had worn similar lines in both faces. They looked singularly alike.
Sidney Meeks had the dramatic instinct. He waited for the silence to gather to its utmost intensity before he spoke. “I had something to tell you when I came in,” he said, “but I thought I had better wait till after supper.”
He paused. There was another silence. Henry's and Sylvia's eyes seemed to wax luminous.
Sidney Meeks spoke again. He was enjoying himself immensely. “What relation is Abrahama White to you?” he said.
“She is second cousin to Sylvia. Her mother was Sylvia's mother's cousin,” said Henry. “What of it?”
“Nothing, except—” Meeks waited again. He wished to make a coup. He had an instinct for climaxes. “Abrahama had a shock this morning,” he said, suddenly.
“A shock?” said Henry.
Sylvia echoed him. “A shock!” she gasped.
“Yes, I thought you hadn't heard of it.”
“I've been in the house all day,” said Sylvia. “I hadn't seen a soul before you came in.” She rose. “Who's taking care of her?” she asked. “She ain't all alone?”
“Sit down,” said Sidney. “She's well cared for. Miss Babcock is there. She happened to be out of a place, and Dr. Wallace got her right away.”
“Is she going to get over it?” asked Sylvia, anxiously. “I must go over there, anyway, this evening. I always thought a good deal of Abrahama.”
“You might as well go over there,” said the lawyer. “It isn't quite the thing for me to tell you, but I'm going to. If Henry here can eat flapjacks like those you make, Sylvia, and not say grace, his state of mind is dangerous. I am going to tell you. Dr. Wallace says Abrahama can't live more than a day or two, and—she has made a will and left you all her property.”
Chapter II
There was another silence. The husband and wife were pale, with mouths agape like fishes. So little prosperity had come into their lives that they were rendered almost idiotic by its approach.
“Us?” said Sylvia, at length, with a gasp.
“Us?” said Henry.
“Yes, you,” said Sidney Meeks.
“What about Rose Fletcher, Abrahama's sister Susy's daughter?” asked Sylvia, presently. “She is her own niece.”
“You know Abrahama never had anything to do with Susy after she married John Fletcher,” replied the lawyer. “She made her will soon afterward, and cut her off.”
“I remember what they said at the time,” returned Sylvia. “They all thought John Fletcher was going to marry Abrahama instead of Susy. She was enough sight more suitable age for him. He was too old for Susy, and Abrahama, even if she wasn't young, was a beautiful woman, and smarter than Susy ever thought of being.”
“Susy had the kind of smartness that catches men,” said the lawyer, with a slight laugh.
“I always wondered if John Fletcher hadn't really done a good deal to make Abrahama think he did want her,” said Sylvia. “He was just that kind of man. I never did think much of him. He was handsome and glib, but he was all surface. I guess poor Abrahama had some reason to cut off Susy. I guess there was some double-dealing. I thought so at the time, and now this will makes me think so even more.”
Again there was a silence, and again that expression of bewilderment, almost amounting to idiocy, reigned in the faces of the husband and wife.
“I never thought old Abraham White should have made the will he did,” said Henry, articulating with difficulty. “Susy had just as much right to the property, and there she was cut off with five hundred dollars, to be paid when she came of age.”
“I guess she spent that five hundred on her wedding fix,” said Sylvia.
“It was a queer will,” stammered Henry.
“I think the old man always looked at Abrahama as his son and heir,” said the lawyer. “She was named for him, and his father before him, you know. I always thought the poor old girl deserved the lion's share for being saddled with such a name, anyhow.”
“It was a dreadful name, and she was such a beautiful girl and woman,” said Sylvia. She already spoke of Abrahama in the past tense. “I wonder where the niece is,” she added.
“The last I heard of her she was living with some rich people in New York,” replied Meeks. “I think they took her in some capacity after her father and mother died.”
“I hope she didn't go out to work as hired girl,” said Sylvia. “It would have been awful for a granddaughter of Abraham White's to do that. I wonder if Abrahama never wrote to her, nor did anything for her.”
“I don't think she ever had the slightest communication with Susy after she married, or her husband, or the daughter,” replied Meeks. “In fact, I practically know she did not.”
“If the poor girl didn't do well, Abrahama had a good deal to answer for,” said Sylvia, thoughtfully. She looked worried. Then again that expression of almost idiotic joy overspread her face. “That old White homestead is beautiful—the best house in town,” she said.
“There's fifty acres of land with it, too,” said Meeks.
Sylvia and Henry looked at each other. Both hesitated. Then Henry spoke, stammeringly:
“I—never knew—just how much of an income Abrahama had,” he said.
“Well,” replied the lawyer, “I must say not much—not as much as I wish, for your sakes. You see, old Abraham had a lot of that railroad stock that went to smash ten years ago, and Abrahama lost a good deal. She was a smart woman; she could work and save; but she didn't know any more about business than other women. There's an income of about—well, about six hundred dollars and some odd cents after the taxes and insurance are paid. And she has enough extra in the Alford Bank to pay for her last expenses without touching the principal. And the house is in good repair. She has kept it up well. There won't be any need to spend a cent on repairs for some years.”
“Six hundred a year after the taxes and insurance are paid!” said Sylvia. She gaped horribly. Her expression of delight was at once mean and infantile.
“Six hundred a year after the taxes and insurance are paid, and all that land, and that great house!” repeated Henry, with precisely the same expression.
“Not much, but enough to keep things going if you're careful,” said Meeks. He spoke deprecatingly, but in reality the sum seemed large to him also. “You know there's an income besides from that fine grass-land,” said he. “There's more than enough hay for a cow and horse, if you keep one. You can count on something besides in good hay-years.”
Henry looked reflective. Then his face seemed to expand with an enormous idea. “I wonder—” he began.
“You wonder what?” asked Sylvia.
“I wonder—if it wouldn't be cheaper in the end to keep an—automobile and sell all the hay.”
Sylvia gasped, and Meeks burst into a roar of laughter.
“I rather guess you don't get me into one of those things, butting into stone walls, and running over children, and scaring horses, with you underneath most of the time, either getting blown up with gasolene or covering your clothes with mud and grease for me to clean off,” said Sylvia.
“I thought automobiles were against your principles,” said Meeks, still chuckling.
“So they be, the way other folks run 'em,” said Henry; “but not the way I'd run 'em.”
“We'll