was monotonously and
sonorously rolling off paragraph after paragraph. Except the judge, young
Hargrave was the only one there who clearly understood what those wordy
provisions meant. As the reading progressed Dory's face flushed a deep
red which slowly faded, leaving him gray and haggard. His father's
beloved project! _His_ father's! To carry out his father's project,
Arthur and Adelaide, the woman he loved and her brother, were to lose
their inheritance. He could not lift his eyes. He felt that they were all
looking at him, were hurling reproaches and denunciations.

Presently Judge Torrey read: "I make this disposal of my estate through
my love for my children and because I have firm belief in the soundness
of their character, and in their capacity to do and to be. I feel they
will be better off without the wealth which would tempt my son to relax
his efforts to make a useful man of himself and would cause my daughter
to be sought for her fortune instead of for herself."

At the words "without the wealth," Arthur shifted sharply in his chair,
and both he and Adelaide looked at Judge Torrey in puzzled wonder. The
judge read on, read the names of signer and witnesses, then laid the will
down and stared gloomily at it. Mrs. Ranger said: "And now, judge, can
you tell us in plain words just what it means?"

With many a pause and stammer the old lawyer made it clear: the house and
its contents and appurtenances, and seven thousand a year to the widow
for life; two thousand a year to Adelaide; five thousand in cash to
Arthur and the chance to earn the mill and factory; the rest, practically
the whole estate, to Tecumseh University.

"Any further questions?" he asked, breaking the silence that followed his
explanation.

No one spoke.

Still without looking at anyone, he put away his glasses? "Then I
guess I'll be going. It won't be necessary to do anything further for
a day or two."

And, with face like that of criminal slinking from scene of crime, he
got himself to the door by a series of embarrassed bows and shuffling
steps. Outside, he wiped the streaming sweat from his forehead. "It
wasn't my fault," he muttered, as if some one were accusing him. Then, a
little further from the house, "I ain't sure Hiram hasn't done right.
But, God help me, I couldn't never save _my_ children at such a price."

He was clear of the grounds before Adelaide, the first to move, cast a
furtive glance at her brother. Her own disast