No, she had not, she answered. Where would be the good of that? They had
written to her often enough about that.

And then she went on to repeat her request. There was nothing she would
not do for them, nothing, if they would but promise to come.

"So be it," replied the elder; "but then, you must make me a promise,
mother, in your turn."

"It isn't the land?" she inquired with humble hesitation. "I should be
agreeable to that."

"No, God forbid! What you have to promise me is, that if I come to your
funeral, you will make such a will that not one acre of the land or one
shilling you possess shall ever come to me or mine."

"And," said the other promptly, "I make the same promise, on the same
condition."

Then there was another pause, deeper and more intense than the first.
The old mother's face passed through many changes, always with an air of
cogitation and trouble; and the old sons watched her in such a suspense
of all movement, that it seemed as if they scarcely breathed.

"You sent your cards in," she said as if with sudden recollection, "to
remind me that you'd kept your father's name?"

"Nothing will ever induce either of us to change it," was the answer.