cubating on the situation, Mr.
Parsons, who had seemed to be dozing, suddenly said:

"I should like you to write to Mr. Lyons, the lawyer, and ask him to
come to see me."

"I will write to-night. You know he called while you were ill."

"Yes, I thought him a clever fellow when we met two or three times on
railroad matters, and I gather from what you told me about his speech at
the political meeting that he's a rising man hereabouts. I'm going to
make my will, and I need him to put it into proper shape."

"I'm sure he'd do it correctly."

"There's not much for him to do except to make sure that the language is
legal, for I've thought it all out while I've been lying here during
these weeks. Still, it's important to have in a lawyer to fix it so the
people whom I don't intend to get my money shan't be able to make out
that I'm not in my right mind. I guess," he added, with a laugh, "that
the doctor will allow I've my wits sufficiently for that?"

"Surely. You are practically well now."

Mr. Parsons was silent for a moment. He prided himself on being
close-mouthed about his private affairs until they were ripe for
utterance. His intention had been to defer until after the interview
with his lawyer any statement of his purpose, but it suddenly occurred
to him that it would please him to unbosom his secret to his companion
because he felt sure in advance that she would sympathize fully with his
plans. He had meant to tell her when the instrument was signed. Why not
now?

"Selma," he said, "I've known ever since my wife and daughter died that
I ought to make a will, but I kept putting it off until it has almost
happened that everything I've got went to my next of kin--folk I'm fond
of, too, and mean to remember--but not fond enough for that. If I give
them fifty thousand dollars apiece--the three of them--I shall rest easy
in my grave, even if they think they ought to have had a bigger slice.
It's hard on a man who has worked all his days, and laid up close to a
million of dollars, not to have a son or a daughter, flesh of my flesh,
to leave it to; a boy or a girl given at the start the education I
didn't get, and who, by the help of my money, might make me proud, if I
could look on, of my name or my blood. It wasn't to be, and I must grin
and bear it, and do the next best thing. I caught a glimpse of what that
thing was soon after I lost my wife and daughter, and it was the thought
of that more than anything which k