ed that it contained the one all
important document--the last instructions of their dear lamented uncle,
the late John Marsh, regarding the disposition of his fortune.

Mr. Cooley, full of his usual bluster, advanced briskly into the room.
Barely deigning to notice those present and ignoring utterly Jimmy's
formal introductions, he proceeded at once to the place prepared for him
at the head of the table, and banged the tin box down in front of him.
Then with a patronizing gesture, meant to be amiable, he invited the
others to take their places. When the shuffling of feet had ceased and
everything was perfectly still he turned to his host and began
pompously:

"My dear friend and client, we have met here to-day for the performance
of a painful but very necessary duty--to ascertain your late brother's
wishes in regard to the disposition of his estate----"

Deeming this a proper moment to display brotherly feeling, Jimmy drew
from his pocket the black-bordered handkerchief and buried his face in
its more or less soiled folds. The cousins, not knowing what was
expected of them, began to study closely the pattern of the green cloth
which covered the table. Clearing his throat as a preliminary to further
oratorical flights, Mr. Cooley went on:

"Yes--I know what you feel at this solemn moment, friend. You feel that
if the dead could only be called back to life, you would cheerfully
relinquish the wealth to which the grim Reaper has made you heir. But
that cannot be. We must accept without question the decree of an
inscrutable Providence. Your brother loved you, James--for that I can
vouch. He was a silent, reserved man and kept strangely aloof from the
world, but his heart was in the right place. On the few occasions when
he took me into his confidence, he spoke most affectionately of you--his
only brother. You alone were in his thoughts when he had under
consideration the important duty of making his will----"

The cousins looked at each other blankly and shifted uneasily on their
seats. The lawyer went on:

"One day--now some twenty-five years ago--John Marsh sent for me to go
to Pittsburg. When I arrived he handed me a sheet of note paper with
some lines hurriedly scribbled on it--the draft for his will. 'Cooley,'
he said, 'this is the way I want to leave my money.' Two days later the
will was signed." Tapping the box in front of him, he added
impressively: "It has been in this box ever since. Mr. Marsh, with your
p