One by one the years passed. Twenty had gone by now since the small boy
came with his fateful summons that June day. Jane was fifty-five now, a
thin-faced, stoop-shouldered, tired woman--but a woman to whom release
from this constant care was soon to come, for she was not yet fifty-six
when her father died.

All the children and some of the grandchildren came to the funeral. In
the evening the family, with the exception of Jane, gathered in the
sitting-room and discussed the future, while upstairs the woman whose
fate was most concerned laid herself wearily in bed with almost a pang
that she need not now first be doubly sure that doors were locked and
spoons were counted.

In the sitting-room below, discussion waxed warm.

"But what shall we do with her?" demanded Mary. "I had meant to give her
my share of the property," she added with an air of great generosity,
"but it seems there's nothing to give."

"No, there's nothing to give," returned Edgar. "The house had to be
mortgaged long ago to pay their living expenses, and it will have to be
sold."

"But she's got to live somewhere!" Mary's voice was fretful,
questioning.

For a moment there was silence; then Edgar stirrad in his chair.

"Well, why can't she go to you, Mary?" he asked.