ession have prevented me from
making myself familiar with the exact amount.

"And," he went on, looking at Dorothy, "there is a very beautiful diamond
pin, the gift of my lamented friend to his lovely young wife upon the day
of the solemnisation of their nuptials, which was to be given to the wife
of Mr. Judson's nephew when he should marry. It is sewn in a mattress in
the room at the end of the north wing."

The earth whirled beneath Dorothy's feet. At first, she had not fully
comprehended what Mr. Bradford was saying, but now she realised that they
had passed from pinching poverty to affluence--at least it seemed so to
her. Harlan was not so readily confused, but none the less, he, too, was
dazed. Neither of them could speak.

"I should be grateful," the old man was saying, "if you would ask Mr.
Richard Chester and Mrs. Sarah Smithers to come to my office at their
earliest convenience. I will not trespass upon their valuable time at
present."

There was a long silence, during which Mr. Bradford cleared his throat,
and wiped his glasses several times. "The farm has always been held in my
name," he continued, "to protect our lamented friend and benefactor from
additional disturbance. If--if the relations had known, his life would
have been even less peaceful than it was. A further farm, valued at twelve
thousand dollars, and also held in my name, is my friend's last gift to
me, as I discovered by opening a personal letter which was to be kept
sealed until this morning. I did not open it until late in the morning,
not wishing to show unseemly eagerness to pry into my friend's affairs. I
am too much affected to speak of it--I feel his loss too keenly. He was my
Colonel--I served under him in the war."

A mist filled the old man's eyes and he fumbled for the door-knob. Harlan
found it for him, turned the key, and opened the door. Mrs. Dodd, Mrs.
Holmes, Mrs. Smithers, and the suffering poet were all in the hall, their
attitudes plainly indicating that they had been listening at the door, but
something in Mr. Bradford's face made them huddle back into the corner,
ashamed.

Feeling his way with his cane, he went to the parlour door, where he stood
for a moment at the threshold, his streaming eyes fixed upon the portrait
over the mantel. The simple dignity of his grief forbade a word from any
one. At length he straightened himself, brought his trembling hand to his
forehead in a feeble military salute, and, wiping his e