She took it doubtfully. "Ought I to read it?"

"Yes."

She saw then that the envelope, in Darrow's hand, was addressed to her son.
Within were a few pencilled words, dated on the first day of his illness,
the morrow of the day on which she had last seen him.

"Dear Dick," she read, "I want you to use my plans for the museum if you
can get any good out of them. Even if I pull out of this I want you to. I
shall have other chances, and I have an idea this one means a lot to you."

Mrs. Peyton sat speechless, gazing at the date of the letter, which she had
instantly connected with her last talk with Darrow. She saw that he had
understood her, and the thought scorched her to the soul.

"Wasn't it glorious of him?" Dick said.

She dropped the letter, and hid her face in her hands.


IV

The funeral took place the next morning, and on the return from the
cemetery Dick told his mother that he must go and look over things at
Darrow's office. He had heard the day before from his friend's aunt, a
helpless person to whom telegraphy was difficult and travel inconceivable,
and who, in eight pages of unpunctuated eloquence, made over to Dick what
she called the melancholy privilege of winding up her nephew's affairs.