down upon the edge of the bed.

"Three thousand dollars!" she exclaimed. "Is that all? Three thousand
dollars!"

"All! My soul, Serena! Why, ONE thousand dollars just now is like--"

"Hush! Do be still! Three thousand dollars! And she worth a hundred
thousand, if she was worth a cent. A lone woman, without a chick or
a child or a relation except you, and that precious young swell of a
cousin of hers she thought so much of. I suppose he gets the rest of it.
Oh, how can anybody be so stingy!"

"Sh-sh, sh-h, Serena. Don't speak so of the dead. Why, we ought to be
mournin' for her, really, instead of rejoicing over what she left us.
It ain't right to talk so. I'm ashamed of myself--or I ought to be. But,
you see, I thought sure the letter was from those hat folks's lawyers,
sayin' they'd started suit. When I found it wasn't, I was so glad I
forgot everything else. Ah hum!--poor Aunt Laviny!"

He sighed. His wife shook her head.

"Daniel," she said, "I--I declare I try not to lose patience with you,
but it's awful hard work. Mourning! Mourn for her! What did she ever do
to make you sorry she was gone? Did she ever come near us when she was
alive? No, indeed, she didn't. Did she ever offer to give you, or even
lend you, a cent? I guess not. And she knew you needed it, for I wrote
her."

"You DID? Serena!"