"Do people ever go crazy with joy?" she cried, and there was the wonderful sound in her voice that comes from a full heart, satisfied to the utmost. "I've read this letter over and over again. Norman is coming home!"
Was he going to bring a wife? I wondered in a dull manner, but I uttered no word.
"You must read it. I can't begin to tell you. Norman has won his good fortune, for I know he has been the best of sons to that poor old man. And now he comes back to us. Read! read!"
She thrust the letter into my hand and sat down, wiping the tears from her face with her apron, smiling through them, her face fairly transfigured and looking almost like a girl. I stared at her, the transformation was so wonderful.
"Read! read!" she cried impatiently.
In the previous letter he had written to his mother he had spoken of a rather severe illness that had attacked Mr. Le Moyne. It had not made any special impression on me. But here in the very beginning—and they had gone to one of the pretty coast watering places where, though he was quite feeble, he seemed to recuperate. No one had felt especially alarmed when he had a slight recurrence, and for a few days he had seemed not to lose ground. Then there had occurred a sudden collapse of all the vital energies and in twenty-four hours he had passed away. But he had kept some sight to the last. It had been a horror to him lest he might have to be led about, and he had prayed to go before that time. And though Norman would miss one who had been the kindest of friends, indeed a father to him, he had lived out the allotted span, and had his wish granted.
Part of the letter had been written while they were making arrangements to go to Paris. His family slept in Père la Chaise, and he would be laid beside them. There was much in the tender regard and sorrow that brought tears to my own eyes.
Arrived at Paris he had found a great deal to do. Mr. Le Moyne's papers were in the safe of a notary. All the arrangements had been made to a letter. He had left quite a large fortune. There were some distant relatives remembered, he had been generous to the oculist who had prolonged his failing sight, to his numerous friends, doubly generous to him, Norman, and the residue had gone to charity. As soon as he could get through with his part of the business he should fly home at once, though the probabilities were that he would have to go back again. But he was dying for a sight of the dear ones, especially his mother in her sorrow.
It was indeed a heart-appealing letter. We both cried over it, yet it gave us a great sense of joy. I forgot my own troubles entirely, and though she was fain to keep me I hurried off home. They were just sitting down to dinner.
"Oh, Dan," I cried, "your mother has heard such news. Mr. Le Moyne is dead and Norman is coming home. He has been left quite a fortune. She wants you to come down and read the letter."