g for which there was no hurry. For why
should she die? There seemed no reason or need for it. So long as she
lived, nothing could be more sure, more happy and serene, than little
Mary's life; and why should she die? She did not perhaps put this into
words; but the meaning of her smile, and the manner in which she put
aside every suggestion about the chances of the hereafter away from her,
said it more clearly than words. It was not that she had any
superstitious fear about the making of a will. When the doctor or the
vicar or her man of business, the only persons who ever talked to her on
the subject, ventured periodically to refer to it, she assented
pleasantly,--yes, certainly, she must do it--some time or other.

"It is a very simple thing to do," the lawyer said. "I will save you all
trouble; nothing but your signature will be wanted--and that you give
every day."

"Oh, I should think nothing of the trouble!" she said.

"And it would liberate your mind from all care, and leave you free to
think of things more important still," said the clergyman.

"I think I am very free of care," she replied.

Then the doctor added bluntly, "And you will not die an hour the sooner
for having made your will."

"Die!" said Lady Mary, surprised. And then she added, with a smile, "I
hope you don't think so little of me as to believe I would be kept back
by that?"

These gentlemen all consulted together in despair, and asked each other
what should be done. They thought her an egotist--a cold-hearted old
woman, holding at arm's length any idea of the inevitable. And so she
did; but not because she was cold-hearted,--because she was so accustomed
to living, and had survived so many calamities, and gone on so long--so
long; and because everything was so comfortably arranged about her--all
her little habits so firmly established, as if nothing could interfere
with them. To think of the day arriving which should begin with some
other formula than that of her maid's entrance drawing aside the
curtains, lighting the cheerful fire, bringing her a report of the
weather; and then the little tray, resplendent with snowy linen and
shining silver and china, with its bouquet of violets or a rose in the
season, the newspaper carefully dried and cut, the letters,--every detail
was so perfect, so unchanging, regular as the morning. It seemed
impossible that it should come to an end. And then when she came
downstairs, there were all the little