LITMIR.BIZ

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      Mr. Watson seemed amazed. Jane Merrick's deceitful trickery, discovered so soon after her death, was almost horrible for him to contemplate. He had borne much from this erratic woman, but had never believed her capable of such an act.

      So he said, in irritable tones:

      "Miss Merrick gave me this document a few days ago, leading me to believe it was her last will. I had prepared it under her instruction and understood that it was properly signed. But she has herself torn off and destroyed the signature and marked the paper 'void,' so that the will previously made is the only one that is valid."

      "What do you mean?" cried Patsy, in amazement. "Isn't Kenneth to inherit Elmhurst, after all?"

      "Me! Me inherit?" exclaimed the boy.

      "That is what she promised me," declared Patsy, while tears of indignation stood in her eyes, "I saw her sign it, myself, and if she has fooled me and destroyed the signature she's nothing but an old fraud—and I'm glad she's dead!"

      With this she threw herself, sobbing, upon a sofa, and Louise and Beth, shocked to learn that after all their cousin had conspired against them, forebore any attempt to comfort her.

      But Uncle John, fully as indignant as Patricia, came to her side and laid a hand tenderly on the girl's head.

      "Never mind, little one." he said. "Jane was always cruel and treacherous by nature, and we might have expected she'd deceive her friends even in death. But you did the best you could, Patsy, dear, and it can't be helped now."

      Meantime the lawyer had been fumbling in the box, and now drew out the genuine will.

      "Give me your attention, please," said he.

      Patsy sat up and glared at him.

      "I won't take a cent of it!" she exclaimed.

      "Be silent!" demanded the lawyer, sternly. "You have all, I believe, been told by Miss Merrick of the terms of this will, which is properly signed and attested. But it is my duty to read it again, from beginning to end, and I will do so."

      Uncle John smiled when his bequest was mentioned, and Beth frowned. Louise, however, showed no sign of disappointment. There had been a miserable scramble for this inheritance, she reflected, and she was glad the struggle was over. The five thousand dollars would come in handy, after all, and it was that much more than she had expected to have before she received Aunt Jane's invitation. Perhaps she and her mother would use part of it for a European trip, if their future plans seemed to warrant it.

      "As far as I am concerned," said Patsy, defiantly, "you may as well tear up this will, too. I won't have that shameful old woman's money."

      "That is a matter the law does not allow you to decide," returned the lawyer, calmly. "You will note the fact that I am the sole executor of the estate, and must care for it in your interests until you are of age. Then it will he turned over to you to do as you please with."

      "Can I give it away, if I want to?"

      "Certainly. It is now yours without recourse, and although you cannot dispose of it until you are of legal age, there will be nothing then to prevent your transfering it to whomsoever you please. I called Miss Merrick's attention to this fact when you refused to accept the legacy."

      "What did she say?"

      "That you would be more wise then, and would probably decide to keep it."

      Patsy turned impulsively to the boy.

      "Kenneth," she said, "I faithfully promise, in the presence of these witnesses, to give you Elmhurst and all Aunt Jane's money as soon as I am of age."

      "Good for you, Patsy," said Uncle John.

      The boy seemed bewildered.

      "I don't want the money—really I don't!" he protested. "The five thousand she left me will be enough. But I'd like to live here at Elmhurst for a time, until it's sold or some one else comes to live in the house!"

      "It's yours," said Patsy, with a grand air. "You can live here forever."

      Mr. Watson seemed puzzled.

      "If that is your wish, Miss Patricia," bowing gravely in her direction, "I will see that it is carried out. Although I am, in this matter, your executor, I shall defer to your wishes as much as possible."

      "Thank you," she said and then, after a moment's reflection, she added: "Can't you give to Louise and Beth the ten thousand dollars they were to have under the other will, instead of the five thousand each that this one gives them?"

      "I will consider that matter," he replied; "perhaps it can be arranged."

      Patsy's cousins opened their eyes at this, and began to regard her with more friendly glances. To have ten thousand each instead of five would be a very nice thing, indeed, and Miss Patricia Doyle had evidently become a young lady whose friendship it would pay to cultivate. If she intended to throw away the inheritance, a portion of it might fall to their share.

      They were expressing to Patsy their gratitude when old Donald suddenly appeared in the doorway and beckoned to Uncle John.

      "Will you please come to see James, sir?" he asked. "The poor fellow's dying."

      CHAPTER XXII.

       JAMES TELLS A STRANGE STORY.

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      Uncle John followed the coachman up the stairs to the little room above the tool-house, where the old man had managed to crawl after old Sam had given him a vicious kick in the chest.

      "Is he dead?" he asked.

      "No, sir; but mortally hurt, I'm thinkin'. It must have happened while we were at the funeral."

      He opened the door, outside which Susan and Oscar watched with frightened faces, and led John Merrick into the room.

      James lay upon his bed with closed eyes. His shirt, above the breast, was reeking with blood.

      "The doctor should be sent for," said Uncle John.

      "He'll be here soon, for one of the stable boys rode to fetch him. But

       I thought you ought to know at once, sir."

      "Quite right, Donald."

      As they stood there the wounded man moved and opened his eyes, looking from one to the other of them wonderingly. Finally he smiled.

      "Ah, it's Donald," he said.

      "Yes, old friend," answered the coachman. "And this is Mr. John."

      "Mr. John? Mr. John? I don't quite remember you, sir," with a slight shake of the gray head. "And Donald, lad, you've grown wonderful old, somehow."

      "It's the years, Jeemes," was the reply. "The years make us all old, sooner or later."

      The gardener seemed puzzled, and examined his companions more carefully. He did not seem to be suffering any pain. Finally he sighed.

      "The dreams confuse me," he said, as if to explain something. "I can't always separate them, the dreams from the real. Have I been sick, Donald?"

      "Yes, lad. You're sick now."

      The gardener closed his eyes, and lay silent.

      "Do you think he's sane?" whispered Uncle John.

      "I do, sir. He's sane for the first time in years."

      James looked at them again, and slowly raised his hand to wipe the damp from his forehead.

      "About Master Tom," he said, falteringly. "Master Tom's dead, ain't he?"

      "Yes, Jeemes."

      "That was real, then, an' no dream. I mind it all, now—the shriek of the whistle, the crash, and the screams of the dying. Have I told you about it, Donald?"

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