"No—no—listen here—to what it says," rejoined Andy, with heightened colour.
"Madam,—I have to acquaint you with the sudden death of Mrs. James Gowdy, which took place yesterday at the 'Beaufort Hotel' in Dover Street, Piccadilly. I am her solicitor, and aware that her will, though drawn up, is unsigned. Therefore, I believe, the fortune of her late husband devolves upon his next-of-kin, who I assume to be your children. I am making all arrangements for the funeral, which I propose should take place at Kensal Green on April 30. I fixed this date presuming that you and members of your family will be present. Kindly write instructions at once, or telegraph. Miss Chandos, Mrs. James Gowdy's adopted daughter, is at present at the Hotel. I beg to add that my firm, having conducted the business of Mrs. Gowdy for twenty years, are conversant with all its details, and we shall be happy to place our experience at your service.
"I remain, Madam,
"Yours faithfully,
"George Middlemass.
"To Mrs. Andrew Gowdy."
When Andy had finished reading the foregoing, he drew a long loud breath and looked around him. There was a dead silence. Mrs. Gowdy straightened her back, and still holding a sausage on a fork, stood staring hard at her son. Then she turned about, and snatching the pan off the fire, exclaimed:
"Well! to think of that! Losh me! It's ten thousand a year coming among ye. It's hard to credit!"
Maggie, who had been washing rubbers in the scullery, stood in the doorway with cold wet arms and crimson cheeks and eyes like two flames.
"What shall we do?" she asked, hysterically. "What shall we do?"
"First of all, thank God," rejoined her pious mother, "and then have a bit of supper before we begin to talk and make plans."