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 have a good, steady horse that won't shy at one, if we have
anything," said Sylvia, and her voice had weight.
"There's a good buggy in Abrahama's barn," said Meeks.
Sylvia made an unexpected start. "I think we are wicked as we can be!"
she declared, violently. "Here we are talking about that poor woman's
things before she's done with them. I'm going right over there to see if I
can't be of some use."
"Sit down, Sylvia," said Henry, soothingly, but he, too, looked both
angry and ashamed.
"You had better keep still where you are to-night," said Meeks. "Miss
Babcock is doing all that anybody can. There isn't much to be done, Dr.
Wallace says. To-morrow you can go over there and sit with her, and
let Miss Babcock take a nap." Meeks rose as he spoke. "I must be
going," he said. "I needn't charge you again not to let anybody know
what I've told you before the will is read. It is irregular, but I thought
I'd cheer up Henry here a bit."
"No, we won't speak of it," declared the husband and wife, almost in
unison.
After Meeks had gone they looked at each other. Both looked
disagreeable to the other. Both felt an unworthy suspicion of the other.
"I hope she will get well," Sylvia said, defiantly. "Maybe she will. This
is her first shock."
"God knows I hope she will," returned Henry, with equal defiance.
Each of the two was perfectly good and ungrasping, but each accused
themselves and each other unjustly because of the possibilities of
wrong feeling which they realized. Sylvia did not understand how, in
the face of such prosperity, she could wish Abrahama to get well, and
she did not understand how her husband could, and Henry's mental
attitude was the same.
Sylvia sat down and took some mending. Henry seated himself
opposite, and stared at her with gloomy eyes, which yet held latent
sparks of joy. "I wish Meeks hadn't told us," he said, angrily.
"So do I," said Sylvia. "I keep telling myself I don't want that poor old
woman to die, and I keep telling myself that you don't; but I'm dreadful
suspicious of us both. It means so much."
"Just the way I feel," said Henry. "I wish he'd kept his news to himself.
It wasn't legal, anyhow."
"You don't suppose it will make the will not stand!" cried Sylvia, with
involuntary eagerness. Then she quailed before her husband's stern
gaze. "Of course I know it won't make any difference," she said, feebly,
and drew her darning-needle through the sock she was mending.
Henry took up a copy of the East Westland Gazette. The first thing he
saw was the list of deaths, and he seemed to see, quite plainly,
Abrahama White's among them, although she was
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