ave her little cackle of a laugh
that always had a sound of derision in it. "You know I can't take any
of it with me, and I'd like to know it will make few people pleased
and happy. I'm going to make you executor, so get some one else to
write out the will. I fixed it to my liking today. You've all been
very good to put up with my whims and queernesses. Old people don't
like too much advice, especially where money is concerned. Look in the
second drawer there--in a long envelope."

"Thank you for this expression of your satisfaction. The babies and
Jack may have been a nuisance at times."

"But that little girl's been good enough to make up for any
annoyance--not that there's been much. Jack's a smart, funny little
fellow. You know they're all more or less bad, but they grow up pretty
fair. There now, I'm tired."

Mr. Borden wished her a kindly good-night and went down stairs to
recount the wonderful interview.

"Oh, John!" Mrs. Borden leaned her head down on her husband's
shoulder. "What a streak of good fortune! Now we really do own the
house free and clear, I thought our summering would be quite moderate
but it wasn't. Still it did the babies an immense deal of good after
they got over their awful time. And they're so nice and well now, and
are growing better looking all the time. If Marilla only _could_ make
their hair curl! It's so stringy, and we haven't worried at Aunt Hetty
for what she did or what she didn't do, and weren't snappy when she
found fault. I used to think she needn't have rung for Marilla quite
so much, but the child never minded running up and down."

"How has she been today?"

"Well, I don't just know; Dr. Baker said she must keep pretty still,
so she's laid on the old lounge, but the babies would crawl over her.
It does seem as if we must have someone else--an older person, though
some of them object to taking out children. But if we want to get much
sewing done--"

"I think I'll have a seamstress for a week or so," said Aunt Florence,
"time goes on so fast."

Marilla had gone up stairs to her own bed, where Bridget had crooned
over her in tender Irish fashion.

"An' I'm sore afraid them babies'll be the death of you, poor lamb!
They drag on you so, and their chatter would drive me crazy."

"But they're so funny."

"I don't call it funny with their hundred and fifty wants," sniffed
Bridget.

Marilla turned faint now and then but for several days she was not
sent out with the chi