"Ah, well, such is life, and none can escape--not even the rich
are spared."

The editor laughed.

"If you are including Tilbury," said he, "it don't apply.
HE hadn't a cent; the town had to bury him."

The Fosters sat petrified for two minutes; petrified and cold.
Then, white-faced and weak-voiced, Sally asked:

"Is it true? Do you KNOW it to be true?"

"Well, I should say! I was one of the executors. He hadn't
anything to leave but a wheelbarrow, and he left that to me.
It hadn't any wheel, and wasn't any good. Still, it was something,
and so, to square up, I scribbled off a sort of a little obituarial
send-off for him, but it got crowded out."

The Fosters were not listening--their cup was full, it could
contain no more. They sat with bowed heads, dead to all things
but the ache at their hearts.

An hour later. Still they sat there, bowed, motionless, silent,
the visitor long ago gone, they unaware.

Then they stirred, and lifted their heads wearily, and gazed at each
other wistfully, dreamily, dazed; then presently began to twaddle
to each other in a wandering and childish way. At intervals they
lapsed into silences, leaving a sentence unfinished, seemingly either