"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