llie, understanding
nothing at all of what was in his mind, but feeling that it was required
of her, nodded. That seemed the signal for which he waited. He
proceeded:

"As a legal formality, Mrs. Chase, I will proceed to file this document
for probate this afternoon."

Judge Little put it in his pocket, reaching down into that deep
depository until his long arm was engulfed to the elbow. That pocket
must have run down to the hem of his garment, like the oil on Aaron's
beard.

Ollie got up. Mrs. Greening hastened to her to offer the support of her
motherly arm.

"I think I'll go upstairs," said the young widow.

"Yes, you do," counseled Mrs. Greening. "They'll be along with the
wagons purty soon, and we'll have to git ready to go. I think they must
have the grave done by now."

The women watched Ollie as she went uncertainly to the stairs and
faltered as she climbed upward, shaking their heads forebodingly. Sol
and Judge Little went outside together and stood talking by the door.

"Ain't it terrible!" said one woman.

"Scan'lous!" agreed the other.

Mrs. Greening shook her fist toward the parlor.

"Old sneaky, slinkin', miserly Isom!" she denounced. "I always felt that
he was the kind of a man to do a trick like that. Shootin' was too good
for him--he orto been hung!"

In her room upstairs Ollie, while entirely unaware of Mrs. Greening's
vehement arraignment of Isom, bitterly indorsed it in her heart. She sat
on her tossed bed, the sickness of disappointment heavy over her. An
hour ago wealth was in her hand, ease was before her, and the future was
secure. Now all was torn down and scattered by an old yellow paper which
prying, curious, meddlesome old Sol Greening had found. She bent her
head upon her hand; tears trickled between her fingers.

Perhaps Isom had a son, unknown to anybody there. There was that period
out of his life when he was at business college in St. Louis. No one
knew what had taken place in that time. Perhaps he had a son. If so,
they would oust her, turn her out as poor as she came, with the memory
of that hard year of servitude in her heart and nothing to compensate
for it, not even a tender recollection. How much better if Joe had not
come between her and Curtis Morgan that night--what night, how long ago
was it now?--how much kinder and happier for her indeed?

With the thought of what Joe had caused of wreckage in her life by his
meddling, her resentment rose against him. But for