fter all," said Margaret, "it's none of my business."

So she eyed it wistfully.

"It may be important," she considerately remembered. "It ought not to
be left there."

So she fished it out with a big paper-cutter.

"But it can't be very important," she dissented afterward, "or he
wouldn't have thrown it away."

So she looked at the superscripture on the back of it.

Then she gave a little gasp and tore it open and read it by the
firelight.

Miss Hugonin subsequently took credit to herself for not going into
hysterics. And I think she had some reason to; for she found the paper
a duplicate of the one Billy had taken out of the secret drawer, with
his name set in the place of hers. At the last Frederick R. Woods had
relented toward his nephew.

Margaret laughed a little; then she cried a little; then she did both
together. Afterward she sat in the firelight, very puzzled and very
excited and very penitent and very beautiful, and was happier than she
had ever been in her life.

"He had it in his pocket," her dear voice quavered; "he had it in his
pocket, my brave, strong, beautiful Billy did, when he asked me to
marry him. It was King Cophetua wooing the beggar-maid--and the beggar
was an impudent, ungrateful, idiotic little _piece!_" Margaret hissed,
in her most shrewish manner. "She ought to be spanked. She ought to go
down on her knees to him in sackcloth, and tears, and ashes, and all
sorts of penitential things. She will, too. Oh, it's such a beautiful
world--_such_ a beautiful world! Billy loves me--really! Billy's a
millionaire, and I'm a pauper. Oh, I'm glad, glad, _glad!_"

She caressed the paper that had rendered the world such a goodly place
to live in--caressed it tenderly and rubbed her check against it. That
was Margaret's way of showing affection, you know; and I protest it
must have been very pleasant for the paper. The only wonder was that
the ink it was written in didn't turn red with delight.

Then she read it through again, for sheer enjoyment of those
beautiful, incomprehensible words that disinherited her. How _lovely_
of Uncle Fred! she thought. Of course, he'd forgiven Billy; who
wouldn't? What beautiful language Uncle Fred used! quite prayer-booky,
she termed it. Then she gasped.

The will in Billy's favour was dated a week earlier than the one they
had found in the secret drawer. It was worthless, mere waste paper. At
the last Frederick R. Woods's pride had conquered his love.

"