Not that Robert and I could feel any certainty. We knew this to have been Mr. Briscoe’s wish and intention, and while he lived many a helpful gift had found its way to us. Mrs. Briscoe was of a different nature, however. Giving presents was not at all in her line; and nothing would have offended her more than to hear that we expected to receive anything at her death as a matter of course.
We were on pleasant terms, so far. She liked to see us sometimes; and she wrote regularly; and in her own way she was kind: yet we could no longer look to “The Gables” for help in times of difficulty.
I think Mrs. Briscoe was a well-meaning woman; but she had not the great gifts of sympathy and generosity.
The letter which came that evening I have by me still, though why I kept it I can hardly say. I read it first to myself, then aloud:—
“MY DEAR NIECE MARION,—I hope you and your
good husband and all your party are well.
I cannot say I am in health myself, but
doubtless it is only to be expected that
I should not feel quite so young as I
once was.”