ayson rapidly
computed that after settling the bills against the estate, including
that of Tutt & Tutt, he would probably get at least sixty thousand out
of it. At the current rate he would continue to be quite
comfortable,--more so in fact than heretofore. Still, it was less than
he had expected. Perhaps his father had had expensive habits.

"Here's the letter," went on Tutt, handing it to Payson who took out his
pen-knife to open it the more neatly. "Probably a suggestion as to the
disposal of personal effects--remembrances or something of the sort.
It's often done."

The envelope was a cheap one, ornamented in the upper left hand corner
with a wood cut showing a stout goddess in a night dress, evidently
meant for Proserpina--pouring a Niagara of grain out of a cornucopia of
plenty over a farmland stacked high with apples, corn, and pumpkins, and
flooded by the beams of a rising sun with a real face. Beneath were the
words:

"If not delivered in five days return to

Clifford, Cobb & Weng,
Grain Dealers and Produce
597 Water Street,
N.Y. City,
N.Y."

Even as his eye fell upon it Payson was conscious of its coarse
vulgarity. And "Weng"! Whoever heard of such a name? He certainly had
not,--hadn't even known that his father had a partner with such an
absurd cognomen! "--& Weng!" There was something terribly plebeian about
it. As well as about the obvious desire for symmetry which had led to
the addition of that superfluous "N.Y." below the entirely adequate
"N.Y. City." But, of course, he'd be glad to do anything his father
requested in a letter.

He forced the edge of the blade through the tough fiber of the envelope,
drew forth the enclosed sheet and unfolded it. In the middle of the top
was a replica of the wood cut upon the outside, only minus the "If not
delivered in five days return to." Then Payson read in his father's
customary bold scrawl the simple inscription, doomed to haunt him
sleeping and waking for many moons:--

"In case of my sudden death I wish my executor to give twenty-five
thousand dollars to my very dear friend Sadie Burch, of Hoboken,
N.J.

"PAYSON CLIFFORD."

For a brief--very brief--moment, a mist gathered over the letter in the
son's hand. "My dear friend Sadie Burch!" He choked back the exclamation
of surprise that rose unconsciously to his lips and endeavored to
suppress any facial evidence of his inner feelings. "Twenty-five
thousand!" Then he held