One day word came that "Uncle Sandy Armstrong" was dead. Andrew could
not get away, nor Polly, who was then a teacher; but Mrs. Webb hastily
packed an old carpet-bag and went over to superintend her brother's
funeral. That evening the young people discussed the death of their
relative in a business-like manner, which their mother would have
resented, but which was justifiable from their point of view.

"I suppose ma will have the farm," remarked Polly, still a plump, rosy,
and well-dressed Polly, albeit with an added air of importance and a
slightly didactic enunciation. "How much do you suppose it's worth?"

Andrew, who was lying on the sofa smoking a pipe, protruded his upper
lip. "Four thousand,--not a cent more. The orchard's all gone to seed,
and the house too."

"We might mortgage the land, and fit the house up for summer boarders."

Andrew frowned heavily. His sister was absently tapping a pile of
compositions on the table beside her, and did not see the frown. She
would not have suspected the cause if she had.

"As well that as anything," he replied, indifferently. "No one will buy
it, that's positive, with all that marsh."

Two days later he returned home to find the very atmosphere of the place
quivering with excitement. Bridget stood in the doorway of the kitchen,
which faced the end of the narrow hallway personal to the Webb abode.
Her round eyes glittered in a purple face. She waved her arms wildly.
[Transcriber's Note: In the original, "She waved her alms wildly."]