the house is in good repair. She has kept it up well. There won't be any need to spend a cent on repairs for some years.”
“Six hundred a year after the taxes and insurance are paid!” said Sylvia. She gaped horribly. Her expression of delight was at once mean and infantile.
“Six hundred a year after the taxes and insurance are paid, and all that land, and that great house!” repeated Henry, with precisely the same expression.
“Not much, but enough to keep things going if you're careful,” said Meeks. He spoke deprecatingly, but in reality the sum seemed large to him also. “You know there's an income besides from that fine grass-land,” said he. “There's more than enough hay for a cow and horse, if you keep one. You can count on something besides in good hay-years.”
Henry looked reflective. Then his face seemed to expand with an enormous idea. “I wonder—” he began.
“You wonder what?” asked Sylvia.
“I wonder—if it wouldn't be cheaper in the end to keep an—automobile and sell all the hay.”
Sylvia gasped, and Meeks burst into a roar of laughter.
“I rather guess you don't get me into one of those things, butting into stone walls, and running over children, and scaring horses, with you underneath most of the time, either getting blown up with gasolene or covering your clothes with mud and grease for me to clean off,” said Sylvia.
“I thought automobiles were against your principles,” said Meeks, still chuckling.
“So they be, the way other folks run 'em,” said Henry; “but not the way I'd run 'em.”
“We'll have a good, steady horse that won't shy at one, if we have anything,” said Sylvia, and her voice had weight.
“There's a good buggy in Abrahama's barn,” said Meeks.
Sylvia made an unexpected start. “I think we are wicked as we can be!” she declared, violently. “Here we are talking about that poor woman's things before she's done with them. I'm going right over there to see if I can't be of some use.”
“Sit down, Sylvia,” said Henry, soothingly, but he, too, looked both angry and ashamed.
“You had better keep still where you are to-night,” said Meeks. “Miss Babcock is doing all that anybody can. There isn't much to be done, Dr. Wallace says. To-morrow you can go over there and sit with her, and let Miss Babcock take a nap.” Meeks rose as he spoke. “I must be going,” he said. “I needn't charge you again not to let anybody know what I've told you before the will is read. It is irregular, but I thought I'd cheer up Henry here a bit.”
“No, we won't speak of it,” declared the husband and wife, almost in unison.
After Meeks had gone they looked at each other. Both looked disagreeable to the other. Both felt an unworthy suspicion of the other.
“I hope she will get well,” Sylvia said, defiantly. “Maybe she will. This is her first shock.”
“God knows I hope she will,” returned Henry, with equal defiance.
Each of the two was perfectly good and ungrasping, but each accused themselves and each other unjustly because of the possibilities of wrong feeling which they realized. Sylvia did not understand how, in the face of such prosperity, she could wish Abrahama to get well, and she did not understand how her husband could, and Henry's mental attitude was the same.
Sylvia sat down and took some mending. Henry seated himself opposite, and stared at her with gloomy eyes, which yet held latent sparks of joy. “I wish Meeks hadn't told us,” he said, angrily.
“So do I,” said Sylvia. “I keep telling myself I don't want that poor old woman to die, and I keep telling myself that you don't; but I'm dreadful suspicious of us both. It means so much.”
“Just the way I feel,” said Henry. “I wish he'd kept his news to himself. It wasn't legal, anyhow.”
“You don't suppose it will make the will not stand!” cried Sylvia, with involuntary eagerness. Then she quailed before her husband's stern gaze. “Of course I know it won't make any difference,” she said, feebly, and drew her darning-needle through the sock she was mending.
Henry took up a copy of the East Westland Gazette. The first thing he saw was the list of deaths, and he seemed to see, quite plainly, Abrahama White's among them, although she was still quick, and he loathed himself. He turned the paper with a rattling jerk to an account of a crime in New York, and the difficulty the police had experienced in taking the guilty man in safety to the police station. He read the account aloud.
“Seems to me the principal thing the New York police protect is the criminals,” he said, bitterly. “If they would turn a little of their attention to protecting the helpless women and children, seems to me it would be more to the purpose. They're awful careful of the criminals.”
Sylvia did not hear. She assented absently. She thought, in spite of herself, of the good-fortune which was to befall them. She imagined herself mistress of the old White homestead. They would, of course, rent their own little cottage and go to live in the big house. She imagined herself looking through the treasures which Abrahama would leave behind her—then a monstrous loathing of herself seized her. She resolved that the very next morning she would go over and help Miss Babcock, that she would put all consideration of material benefits from her mind. She brought her thoughts with an effort to the article which Henry had just read. She could recall his last words.
“Yes, I think you are right,” said she. “I think criminals ought not to be protected. You are right, Henry. I think myself we ought to have a doctor called from Alford to-morrow, if she is no better, and have a consultation. Dr. Wallace is good, but he is only one, and sometimes another doctor has different ideas, and she may get help.”
“Yes, I think there ought to be a consultation,” said Henry. “I will see about it to-morrow. I will go over there with you myself to-morrow morning. I think the police ought not to protect the criminals, but the people who are injured by them.”
“Then there would be no criminals. They would have no chance,” said Sylvia, sagely. “Yes, I agree with you, Henry, there ought to be a consultation.”
She looked at Henry and he at her, and each saw in the other's face that same ignoble joy, and that same resentment and denial of it.
Neither slept that night. They were up early the next morning. Sylvia was getting breakfast and Henry was splitting wood out in the yard. Presently he came stumbling in. “Come out here,” he said. Sylvia followed him to the door. They stepped out in the dewy yard and stood listening. Beneath their feet was soft, green grass strewn with tiny spheres which reflected rainbows. Over their heads was a wonderful sky of the clearest angelic blue. This sky seemed to sing with bell-notes.
“The bell is tolling,” whispered Henry. They counted from that instant. When the bell stopped they looked at each other.
“That's her age,” said Sylvia.
“Yes,” said Henry.
Chapter III
The weather
