Mrs. Pope did not often spend an evening at her son-in-law’s. She lived some distance down-town, at a boarding-house kept by an old acquaintance of hers, on Fifty-ninth Street, and she had an aversion to the trip to Harlem. She often told the girls that New York stopped at Fifty-ninth Street and that she could never endure living beyond it.

Her object, on this particular occasion, was to induce Donald, if possible, to change his mind with reference to the seashore cottage which she was so anxious to take for the summer.

She came in puffing audibly, accompanied by Alice. Her usual dissatisfied expression was in evidence. Mrs. Pope was chronically dissatisfied with everything—her income, her life, her increasing flesh, her daughter’s marriage, and the weather.

“Edith,” she announced, as she entered the room, “the elevator service in this place gets worse every day. I’ve been waiting downstairs for a car for over five minutes, and the boy had the impertinence to tell me he had been out running errands for one of the tenants. You ought to complain about it.”

“I’m sorry, mother,” said Edith, as she helped in the removal of Mrs. Pope’s coat.

“Why don’t they have a hall boy?” demanded her mother, glaring at Edith as though it were her daughter’s particular fault that this service was lacking.

“I suppose it’s on account of the expense.”

“Humph! That’s one of the joys of living in such cheap apartments. When I lived at the Bolingbroke Arms—”

“Please, mother, don’t tell us about it again,” exclaimed Alice impatiently. The story of her mother’s former grandeur was an oft told tale in the family.

“Alice, you are impertinent.” Her mother’s tone was deeply aggrieved. “Before your dear father died, we had everything heart could wish. It is not strange that I find myself unable to get accustomed to Harlem flats.” She turned to Edith, who had taken up her sewing. “Edith, where’s your husband?”

“He went out to post some letters, mother. He’ll be back presently.”

Mrs. Pope glared about the room with an impatient snort. “Huh!” she exclaimed. “I don’t wish to make unkind remarks about Donald behind his back, but, when I consented to your marriage, I certainly never expected to see you come to this. I’ve just come from the Harrisons’. They have taken an apartment in the St. George. You ought to see it, Edith. Persian rugs all over the place, real-lace curtains, Circassian-walnut furniture in the dining-room, cold-storage ice-box, vacuum cleaner free every week. It’s perfect, and only two thousand a year. I couldn’t help thinking that that was the kind of a home I hoped to see my daughter in, instead of a fifty-dollar-a-month tenement.” She sank heavily into a chair, and emitted a windy sigh.

Alice threw down the magazine which she had been looking over and laughed. “Well, mother, you may see it yet, you know. I’m still in the running.”

“Not unless you give up your ridiculous idea of marrying that young Emerson Hall, and pick out a man with some money. He need not be a millionaire, but he at least ought to be able to keep you in the style to which you have always been accustomed.”

Alice laughed. “Don’t forget, mother,” she said with a mischievous look, “that he has been to our boarding-house. I guess he’ll be able to match that, at least.”

“Alice, I see no necessity of your reminding me of our present poverty. When your father, my poor, dear J. B., was alive, we lived just as well as the Harrisons’.”

“I know it, mother. That’s one reason why father left debts, instead of a bank account.”

“Alice, how can you speak so of your poor father? He was the best husband I ever knew. He never refused me anything.” She took out her handkerchief and applied it gently to her eyes. “I shall never get over his untimely end—never.”

“Don’t mind me, mother. Poor old dad was the best father in the world.” Alice went over to her mother and patted her consolingly on the shoulder.

“He certainly was,” continued Mrs. Pope. “I never had to ask him for a dollar. He anticipated my every wish. One of the last things he said was, ‘Mary, see that the girls marry well.’ I often think of it, Edith, when I look at you.”

“Oh, well, mother,” rejoined Edith, “I certainly wouldn’t have wanted to marry any man just for his money.”

“It’s just as easy to fall in love with a rich man, my dear, as with a poor one. I always told you that. With your looks, you might have had anyone you pleased.”

“How about me, mother?” asked Alice mischievously.

“You certainly ought to do better than that young Hall, as I’ve told you before. I doubt if he has five thousand a year.”

“Four, mother, I understand.”

“Then he is worse than impossible. Four thousand a year! Your father never spent less than fifteen and we had hard enough work to make ends meet as it was, but I always had my maid, and my carriage. I’m an old woman now, and it doesn’t make any difference if I have to do without—though I can’t say I’ve ever become used to it—but you are young; you ought to have pleasure, luxury, the good things of life. Look at Edith, poor child, stuck here in this awful place without a cent she can call her own. It ought to be a lesson to you.”

“Sort of horrible example, I suppose,” remarked Mrs. Rogers, with a trace of bitterness in her voice.

“Well, you’re not happy, are you?” asked her mother, turning on her suddenly. “Why should you be? Donald may be a very faithful husband—at least I don’t know anything to the contrary, but why he should expect a girl like you to bow down and worship him, just for permitting you to cook his meals, is more than I can see. If he only had a little more spirit, he would get out and make money, the way other men do, instead of being content to live on little better than a clerk’s hire. I don’t like to hurt your feelings, my dear, any more than I can help, but you know I’ve always thought him a pretty poor sort of a stick.”

“I know you’ve never liked Donald, mother. Let’s talk of something else.”

“What we really came for, Edith, was to talk over our plans for the summer.” Alice drew up her chair and looked significantly at her mother.

“Exactly,” said Mrs. Pope. “I know that Donald hasn’t given his consent, but I intend to talk to him about the matter myself.” Mrs. Pope looked at her daughter as though she believed the matter as good as settled already. “Alice and I are paying thirty-five dollars a week where we are. If you and Bobbie could pay twenty-five that would make—let me see—” she paused, absorbed in the effort of mental calculation—“two hundred and sixty a month.”

“Two hundred and forty, mother,” corrected Alice.

“Oh, well—two hundred and forty, then. We could rent a bungalow, furnished, for a hundred a month; that would leave a hundred and forty for living expenses—we wouldn’t need to keep a girl. Donald could come down for week ends.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do it, mother. Donald says he can’t afford it. I told you what he said.”

“Edith, for goodness’ sake, have a little spirit. Your health demands a change. Your child’s health demands it. And, besides, if you don’t come, Alice and I shall be obliged to go to a hotel and live in a couple of stuffy rooms. We couldn’t afford to take a cottage, just for the two of us.”

“We can’t spare the money, mother. I’m sorry, but I can’t do anything more.”

“What on earth does Donald do with his money, Edith? He certainly doesn’t spend it on you.”

“He is investing it in a glass factory, in West Virginia, I believe.”

Mrs. Pope looked supremely disgusted. “Glass factory!” she snorted. “Isn’t that just like him. He thinks little enough of your happiness. Poor Edith! My poor child! You certainly are to be pitied.”

“He hopes to make a great deal out of it, some day.”

“Fiddlesticks! He might just as well throw it in the street. My poor dear J. B. always said that Government bonds were the only safe investment. Glass factory, indeed!” She seemed unable to contain her indignation.

The rattle of a key in the door warned her of Donald’s approach. She composed her face in a smile, and rose to greet him as he entered. “My dear Donald,” she exclaimed effusively, “I’m so glad to see you!”

“Good-evening, mother. You don’t mind?” Donald replied pleasantly, holding up the cigar he was smoking.

“Oh, not in the least.” Mrs. Pope resumed her chair with a self-satisfied air. “My poor dear J. B. always smoked the very best Havanas. I love the odor of a good Havana cigar.”

Donald went over to the desk and seated himself in his accustomed chair. “I’m afraid you won’t like this one, then,” he said, with a short laugh. “Pure Connecticut, five straight. I can’t afford the imported kind.”

Mrs. Pope took no notice of his remarks on the subject of cigars. She looked from Alice to Edith, as though to gather courage, preened herself with a conscious effort, then plunged into the fray. “Donald,” she began, “we were just speaking of our plans for the summer. I know you will be interested on Edith’s account, and Bobbie’s. The poor child doesn’t look very well. Edith tells me he has a racking cough. Now let me tell you what we propose to do. Edith thinks it a perfectly splendid plan.”

“Mother, you know what I told you,” began Mrs. Rogers warningly.

“Never mind, child. I wish to place the matter before Donald in a businesslike way. I am an old woman, but I am willing to sacrifice myself for my children’s sake.”

“I couldn’t think of letting you do anything of the sort on Edith’s account,” remarked Donald dryly.

“Edith is my child, Donald. I must think of her welfare. I propose to rent a cottage at the seashore—a little bungalow—”

“I know all about it, mother,” interrupted Donald, with a look of weariness. “Edith has told me. We can’t do it this summer.”

“But, Donald, surely you realize what it would mean for her, and for your child?”

“Quite as well as you do. I’m sorry, but I can’t do it. We have to make sacrifices now, for the sake of the future.” He turned to his desk, and began to look over some papers which he drew from his pocket.

“But surely you realize—you can’t mean—” stammered Mrs. Pope feebly, her face reddening angrily.

“I shouldn’t say anything more about it, mother, if I were you,” remarked Edith.

Mrs. Pope sank back into her chair, with an air of deep resignation. “Very well,” she said, as though allowing the whole matter to pass from her hands into those of Divine Providence. “I’ve tried to do my duty. If anything happens to Bobbie, remember that, Donald.” It was quite clear that whatever might happen she would regard as solely her son-in-law’s fault.

“I shall,” remarked Donald, going on with his reading.

There was an ominous silence, broken only by the ticking of the clock upon the mantel. It was interrupted by the sudden ringing of the door-bell. Donald rose and went over to the door. The others heard him talking with someone outside. Presently he turned, with a card in his hand. “The boy says there is a gentleman downstairs to see you, Edith,” he said to his wife.

Edith rose in surprise. “To see me?” she asked. “Who is it?”

Her husband looked at the card. “Mr. Ogden Brennan, the card says. Do you know him?”

“No, I never heard the name before.” She came over to Donald and, taking the card, looked at it curiously. “Perhaps we had better ask him to come up.”

“Send him up,” said Donald to the boy at the door, as he closed it.

“I wonder who he can be?” Edith asked in mystified tone.

“Possibly a bill-collector,” said Mrs. Pope sarcastically.

“Hardly, at this time of the night.” Donald looked at his watch. “It’s almost eight-thirty.” He took a match from the desk, and carefully relighted his half-smoked cigar.

Mrs. Pope rose. “Alice, I think we had better be going,” she remarked, with a frown.

“Nonsense, mother. Sit down. You’ve only just come. There is some beer on the ice.” She paused, and Mrs. Pope relapsed into her chair with sudden promptness. “Very well, Edith, if you insist,” she said resignedly.

“Let’s make a welsh rabbit,” suggested Alice, looking up from her magazine. As she spoke the door-bell rang. Her sister hurried over to the door and threw it open.

Mr. Brennan came in with a slight show of hesitation, looking about him curiously. The household of the persons who were to have the spending of West’s fortune had a peculiar interest for him. What sort of persons were they? he had asked himself half a hundred times since he left his office. “This is Mrs. Rogers’ apartment?” he inquired, as he came in.

“Yes,” answered Edith, returning his glance of scrutiny with interest.

“I wish to see Mrs. Rogers.”

“I am Mrs. Rogers.”

“I am here on a matter of business, Mrs. Rogers.” He glanced about the room, embracing the others in his comprehensive survey. “Of course, if you have guests, I could perhaps come at some other time.”

“I hardly think it will be necessary,” remarked Edith nervously. She had not the least idea what this dignified-looking old gentleman could want with her, but it was clearly evident that he was neither a book-agent nor a bill-collector. She was conscious of a growing presentiment of evil and, in her perplexity, she turned to her husband. “Mr. Brennan,” she said, “this is my husband.”

The two men bowed. “I am glad to meet you, Mr. Brennan,” said Donald, coming toward him. “You have business with my wife, I understand.”

“Yes, Mr. Rogers. Business of great importance.” Mr. Brennan’s tone was significant—ominous.

Donald took the lawyer’s coat and hat. “My mother and sister, Mr. Brennan,” he observed. “Won’t you take a seat?”

Brennan bowed, but declined the chair. “I shall keep you but a moment. My business is with your wife, Mr. Rogers, but I came at this hour, in the hope of finding you at home as well. The matter concerns you both. I am an attorney, of the firm of Gruber, McMillan, Brennan & Shaw, of Number 11 Wall Street.”

“Yes?” replied Donald, looking in surprise at Edith. She with Alice, and the mother, who had risen from her chair, stood regarding the visitor with interest.

“I regret to say,” continued Mr. Brennan, in an even tone, “that I have come upon a very sad errand.”

The fears which had been torturing Edith all the evening suddenly took a more concrete form. “What!” she cried, clutching at her breast—“I—I don’t understand.”

“You were acquainted with Mr. William West, were you not, Mrs. Rogers?” He turned to her with a look of interrogation.

Edith stared at him in wide-eyed terror, her fingers convulsively clutching the lace at her throat. “Were!” she cried. “Were!” then relapsed into silence. Donald seemed surprised at her agitation; to him it meant nothing. He turned to Mr. Brennan. “Certainly. Billy West. He’s one of my best friends.”

“It is with the deepest regret that I am obliged to inform you of his death.” Mr. Brennan’s voice was not so even as it had been, and held a note of sorrow. He had been genuinely fond of West, and the latter’s death was a great shock to him.

Edith shrank back with a cry, her hand over her eyes, as though trying to ward off this sudden blow. Her sister put her arm about her. “Edith!” she whispered, and spoke to her in a low voice. The others were too much surprised by the lawyer’s announcement to give much attention to her agitation.

Donald was the first to speak. “Dead! Billy West dead! Impossible!” He gazed at Mr. Brennan with a stare of incredulity.

“Unfortunately not, Mr. Rogers. I only wish it were. Mr. West died suddenly last Friday in Denver, Colorado, following an operation for appendicitis.”

In his sudden realization of his friend’s death, Donald turned away, the tears very near the surface. “Poor old chap!” he muttered. “Poor old Billy!” He looked over at his wife. “Edith, isn’t it terrible? Think of it, Billy West dead.”

“Why do you come to tell us? How do you know?” asked Edith, staring at Mr. Brennan in a frightened way.

“I have been Mr. West’s attorney for a number of years. I received word of his death this morning.”

“Poor young man! I always liked him so much!” Mrs. Pope assumed an expression of deep solicitude. “He was very well off, was he not, Mr. Brennan?”

“Very,” answered Brennan shortly, then turned to Donald. “You knew Mr. West very well, I take it?”

“Intimately. We had been bosom friends for years. He was in my class at college. I loved him like a brother. He had a heart of gold, Mr. Brennan. Of all the men I know, he was the squarest and best friend. You cannot realize what his death means to us. Edith, isn’t it sad?”

Edith began to cry. “I—I can’t realize it,” she sobbed; “it seems so terrible.”

Brennan drew a thin, folded document from his pocket, and regarded it critically through his eyeglasses. “He must have thought a great deal of you—and Mrs. Rogers,” he observed, glancing at Donald.

“I am quite sure he did, Mr. Brennan, but why—?”

Brennan interrupted him with a wave of his hand. “I will explain,” he said. “Before Mr. West died, he made a will. It was drawn up by an attorney in Denver who, acting on Mr. West’s instructions, at once communicated with me. I am the executor of the estate.”

“But, Mr. Brennan, how does the matter concern us?” Donald was becoming a trifle impatient under the continued strain of Mr. Brennan’s significant manner.

“The best way to answer that, Mr. Rogers,” said Brennan, adjusting his eyeglasses, and unfolding the document he held in his hand, “is to read the will.”

With a sudden start, Edith dashed the tears from her eyes and turned toward the lawyer. She was conscious of a horrible fear—a feeling of dread lest this document, to which Mr. Brennan evidently attached such sinister importance, might contain something, she knew not what, which would apprise Donald of her relations with the dead man, and, like a voice from the grave blast her whole life. “Why is it necessary to read it?” she asked, her voice trembling with emotion.

Brennan turned and observed her gravely through his glasses. “Because, Mrs. Rogers,” he replied, “this document concerns you most intimately. It isn’t very long.” Again he took up the will and prepared to read.

“I—I don’t want to hear it,” sobbed Edith.

“Edith, what is wrong with you? Why should Mr. Brennan not read the will if it contains matters which concern us?” Donald turned to the lawyer. “You must pardon my wife, Mr. Brennan. This sad news has completely upset her. Go ahead.” He went over to Edith and, taking her arm, led her to a chair. “You had better sit down, Edith, and let Mr. Brennan finish what he has to say. There is no occasion for all this excitement.”

“But, Donald—listen—I—”

“Never mind now. We are detaining Mr. Brennan.” His voice was impatient, and he looked at her curiously. “Go ahead, sir,” he said, “and let us have the matter over with, whatever it is, as quickly as possible.”

Brennan, clearing his throat with a nervous cough, took up the will and began to read.

“‘I, William West, being of sound mind, do hereby make this my last will and testament.

“‘I give, devise and bequeath all my property, whether real or personal, and wherever situated, to Edith Pope Rogers, wife of Donald Evan Rogers, of New York City.’”

He paused, and glanced about to note the effect of his words. Edith had slowly risen from her chair, and her face was a picture of horrified amazement. Donald, almost equally surprised, looked from the lawyer to her, apparently unable to speak. Alice and Mrs. Pope were dumfounded. The whole party stood in silence regarding Mr. Brennan as though they could scarcely grasp what they had heard.

Suddenly the tenseness of the moment was broken. Edith had come slowly toward Brennan, her hand outstretched, her face white with horror. “No!—my God! No!” she cried, then tottered and would have fallen had her mother not stepped quickly forward and supported her. “I can’t take it—I can’t take it!” she cried, in spite of her mother’s attempts to quiet her.

“The remainder of the will,” continued Brennan coldly, as he folded up the document and placed it in his pocket, “refers only to my appointment as executor.” He removed his glasses and looked at Donald.

“You mean that he has left everything to my wife?” gasped the latter, faintly.

“Everything.”

“No! No!” cried Edith.

“Be quiet, my child,” Mrs. Pope said soothingly, then turned to the lawyer. “How much did he leave, Mr. Brennan?” she asked.

“I cannot say exactly, madam. It will be impossible to tell until the estate is settled up. Probably not less than half a million.”

“Half a million!” Mrs. Pope collapsed limply into a chair. “Edith! Half a million! Think of it!” She sat gazing before her with a half-incredulous smile, as though the thought of so much money were difficult of digestion.

“Mr. Brennan, I can’t understand it—I can’t believe it.” Donald’s voice was trembling with excitement. “Why should he have left Mrs. Rogers all this money? Had he no relatives—no connections—who would have a better right to it?”

“None, I understand. In any event, the will would stand. Mr. West has shown his affection for your wife by leaving her his entire fortune. No court could break that will.”

“What a man!” exclaimed Donald. “I knew he was very fond of us; we had been friends for years, but I never thought of anything like this.” He went up to his wife and took her hand. “Edith,” he said earnestly, “do you realize what it means? Poor old Billy has made you a rich woman.”

“I cannot take this money,” cried Edith, her face dull with despair. “I cannot—I cannot.” She tore herself away from her husband and faced Brennan with the look of an animal at bay.

“Edith, my dear, are you losing your senses?” inquired Mrs. Pope.

“I cannot take it,” repeated Mrs. Rogers, mechanically.

“Why not?” asked Donald. His question came like a blow.

She did not dare to tell him that—she clenched her hands until the blood came, looking at him in sudden confusion.

“Of course, it is a very large amount,” he went on, “but if he wished it—”

“You are right, Donald.” Mrs. Pope favored him with a smile which seemed almost genial, compared with those she usually bestowed upon him. “Edith, my dear, it is your duty to respect the wishes of the dead. Don’t you think so, Mr. Brennan?”

“The will allows me no latitude, madam. Whatever your daughter’s feelings in the matter may be, it is my duty as executor to turn over to her Mr. West’s estate in its entirety. What disposition she may see fit to make of it afterward is, of course, no affair of mine.” He turned and picked up his hat and coat from the chair where Donald had placed them. “It will be desirable, Mrs. Rogers, for you to come to my office at your early convenience for a business consultation. There are some papers I shall want you to sign. If possible, I should be glad to have you come to-morrow—say at twelve o’clock.”

“I—I tell you I don’t want this money,” faltered Edith. “I—I have no right to it—”

“Mr. Brennan has just explained to you, Edith, that the money is yours by law. He is obliged to turn it over to you. I can understand, of course, that it is a great surprise to you, but surely, if it was his wish, there is no reason for you to feel so strongly about it.” She fell to sobbing softly and, clutching at his arm, put her head upon it. “Donald—oh, Donald!” she moaned.

“I think, Mr. Brennan,” said Donald, turning to the lawyer, “that you can depend upon Mrs. Rogers coming in to see you at twelve to-morrow. Good-night.”

“Good-night,” said the lawyer, as he bowed and left the room.

“Think of what this money will mean, Edith,” exclaimed her mother, her face aglow with anticipation, “to you—to Bobbie—to all of us.” She looked at Alice with a joyful smile. “I guess we can have that cottage after all.”

“Don’t! Don’t!” cried Edith. “My God, you don’t realize what you are saying.”

She swayed suddenly forward, overcome by the terrible strain of the past half-hour, and fell heavily to the floor.