ely. Yes, dear, all that. Old Israel, here, needs
comfort. Talk to him a little."

So she led the heart-broken Israel into the farthest room, and sitting
down beside him persuaded him to speak with her of the one that had
passed on, and in the act to find relief. Then she slipped away a moment
and found Hallam, who, when he had heard this later news, quietly
dismissed the club and brought the happy holiday to a reverent close.

"Land! that makes all such ilk," said Teamster John, pointing to
Fayette's glittering heap, "to seem of small account. What's a litter of
gold alongside of such as him?"

And not one among them all who had ever known Adam Burn found anything
now worth discussing save the goodness and simplicity of their dead
neighbor and friend.

But late that night, after Israel had gone back to the desolate Clove,
to make such arrangements for the old man's burial as his friends at
"Charity House" had deemed fitting, Uncle Frederic remarked, casually:--

"By the way, Amy, Mrs. Burn ('Sarah Jane,' you know) told me a bit of
news, to the effect that you are the old man's heiress, because of your
name that was his wife's. She says he gave you a sealed letter before he
left Ardsley, which letter explained everything,--where the will was to
be found, and the few directions necessary for the settlement of the
estate. Your father and I are trustees, she thinks, until you come of
age, but you are the heir. Good night."

"No, no, uncle, I don't want to be! I want nothing that is gained by his
death. And--I lost that letter, anyway."

"Lost it? That's serious. However, it can doubtless be arranged. Good
night."

CHAPTER XXVIII.

ONE WONDERFUL AUTUMN DAY.

The months flew by. The summer came and went. It was the hour for
closing on a "Saturday-half," a whole year since Amy Kaye first visited
the mills of Ardsley, and now she felt as they were a part of her very
life. Beginning at the bottom she had industriously worked her way
upward till she had just been promoted to the pleasant and well-paying
task of "setter," in the big clean room, where the open windows admitted
the soft air of another Indian summer.

Away, at the extreme end of the long apartment, was a sunshiny office,
lately constructed for the personal use of Archibald Wingate. This
office was partitioned from the setting room by a glass sliding door,
and through this, as Amy now lifted her eyes, she could see the broad
back of her relative