"That's what the lawyer, Mr. Thornton, said."

Mrs. Smith was speechless.

"I can't believe my ears. There must be some mistake. I'll--I'll--go
and talk it over with some one. Do you want to go to your room, or
will you go out to the women, Drusilla?"

"I think I'll go to my room fer a while, if I may--that is, if you
don't need me, Mis' Smith."

Mrs. Smith shook her head. Need her, need a woman who had just been
left a million dollars! No, indeed; not in the way that Drusilla
meant.

Drusilla went slowly up to her room and sat down in the little rocker
by the bed. She tried to think it all over; but it did not seem real.
She felt the letter in her pocket and, finding her second-best pair
of glasses, moved her chair close to the window and read it through
slowly. Then, holding the letter in her hands, she sat back in her
chair and the tears welled slowly from her faded eyes, rolling down
the wrinkled cheeks and falling, drop by drop, on to her dress
unnoticed. She was not thinking of the money but of the kindly old
man who had thought of her in his last hours, and planned for her
happiness. She had never had any one plan for her happiness before,
nor care for her for so many years that she had forgotten what care
meant, and her heart seemed full to bursting. She said softly to
herself, "He must 'a' cared something fer me or he wouldn't 'a'
thought of it all. He _must_ 'a' cared."