began to tap their foreheads, and raise their eyebrows, and nod mysteriously when they spoke of the sexton. Mr. Joyce of the George had even ventured to say that, in his opinion, the sexton "had gone downright cracked!" but this was in a free moment, late in the evening, after the rummers had been filled up rather frequently; and he was reproved, if not punished, by his wife for so strong and unwarrantable an assertion. "Aged seventy-two," the sexton would mumble over and over again. "A mere boy—a mere boy. To think that I should live to see his funeral—to see that put up here. I thought the old colonel had been the last. Late of this parish—don't it say? My eyesight ain't what it was. Yes, of this parish, and a deal of good he's done for it in his time, as I can bear witness. A good old gentleman. God bless him for it! God bless him!" And he turned away, the keys jingling in his trembling hand. Mr. Tressell had been quite satisfied with the funeral. "Very nice and gentlemanly," he said, as he rewrapped the baton, with the brass tips, in silver-paper. "Very nice indeed. But you may always trust the county families for that," he went on; "they understand burying. You may always tell a gentleman by his funeral. Well, perhaps it would have been better if the chief mourner had clean shaved. A beard at a burying was out of place, strictly speaking. It gave a furrin air to the thing. Still it was nice and gentlemanly on the whole." Others beside Mr. Tressell had commented upon the appearance of the late Mr. Hadfield's elder son. "That Mr. Wilford?" they said. "How old looking!—only eight-and-twenty? Why he looks forty, at least! And how white that dreadful crape makes his face look! Poor young man! He must be very ill—very much cut up—very disappointed perhaps,—ah! most likely that was it." So Grilling Abbots commented; and old Mr. Bartlett (of the firm of Parkinson, Bartlett, & Co.) was reassured. The short will had been destroyed—the long will was left in force. He was sorry for the elder son, of course. Still it would have been a thousand pities to have thrown away, to have made waste paper, absolutely waste paper, of a will so perfectly, so beautifully drawn as that had been, and settled by Mr. Spinbury, of Old Square. And Mr. Bartlett rubbed his plump white hands together until his mourning rings glittered like diamonds.
At the Grange the shutters were thrown open again, and the clear winter light once more poured in at the windows. Stephen's children, in deep mourning, were permitted to resume their games at horses; but with a proviso that they did not make too much noise, or in any way annoy their Uncle Wilford.
"Mamma, is he really our uncle?" lisped little Agnes.
"Yes, yes, of course he is," answers mamma, rather frightened lest the question should have been overheard.
"Then why doesn't he give us things like our other uncles? Why doesn't he kiss us more, and play with us, and tell us fairy stories?"
"Hush, Agnes,—because Uncle Wilford's not well, because he's very sad and sorry. By-and-by he'll be better, I daresay, and then he'll play with you as long as you like."
"Ah!" remarks the young lady with a premature wisdom, "if he's ill he oughtn't to drink so much wine, and nurse thinks so too."
"Be quiet, Agnes; you must never say such rude things."
"Oh, mamma, do look at Saxon—what a mess he's made his new crape in!"
The family had assembled in the large drawing-room after the funeral to hear the will read. The children, marvelling what could be the meaning of this unusual conclave, disturbed its peace by intermittent kicking at the door, greatly to Mrs. Stephen's displeasure, who inveighed loudly against the ceaseless negligence of modern nurses.
"Jeffries, do keep the children up-stairs and quiet for half an hour," she said, in tones, for her, almost peremptory.
"Saxon, you don't know where grandpapa's gone to—I do," Miss Agnes remarks, with an air of wisdom.
"Where then, miss? You don't know," answers little Saxon, offended at this assumption of superior information.
"Up there—in the skies, higher than ever I can throw my ball. See,"—and she suits the action to the word.
"Will he come down again?" asks the little boy, as he sees the ball fall.
The subject is too vast for his early intelligence to cover, and Miss Agnes can render him no assistance. She dismisses the topic, or moves, perhaps, the previous question with the words—
"Be my horse, Sax," and soon there is a sound of little feet tramping in the hall.
Mr. Bartlett reads the will, rather pompously, holding up his gold-rimmed double eye-glasses. It is a tiresome business. Mrs. Stephen quite loses her way in it before the first page has been turned. Stephen looks bewildered. Wilford leans his head on his hands, and crouches by the fire: he seems abstracted, and very cold. He shivers now and then, when his teeth quite chatter. Mrs. Stephen has soon given up the thing as hopeless. She passes the time in listening to the children, and endeavouring to guess at their proceedings. They are very quiet now. How she trusts that they are at no mischief! They are noisy again now—how noisy! She can barely hear Mr. Bartlett's voice. She grows quite hot and uncomfortable. What a noise! How fast they are running! Oh, if Agnes should hurt herself! Oh, if Saxon were to fall down! Is there to be no end to the will—and what does it all mean?
Mr. Bartlett glanced at Wilford when the reading was finished.
"He takes it very quietly," said the lawyer to himself. "Does he understand it? 'Cut off with a shilling;' that I suppose would be the popular description of the eldest son's position. It seems cruel, but of course a man has a right to do what he likes with his own, or else what would be the use of will-making? Still there's almost a case for him. He might try to upset the will—its provisions do seem to be a little unnatural. Was the testator sane when he executed it? The date some