He took the other's hand and shook it very warmly. Then he picked up the packet on the table, dragged the tape off, and gave it to Brendon.
"Read," he said.
The giant, amazed at such emotion, stared dumbly out of his dark, dog-like eyes, opened the packet and knit his brows to peruse the calligraphy.
Woodrow walked about the room while Daniel read his will. It was short, and took but three minutes. Then Brendon put the paper on the table again.
"Tell me one thing," he said. "Be you sure that to do this is not to wrong some other—somebody of your own kin who have a right to it all? Can you swear that?"
"None has a right. I'm alone in the world. My kin are remote and nothing to me. They are well-to-do, and have no anxiety. You must keep John Prout easy and comfortable until he dies, and also his sister—that's the only condition."
"I can't bring it home to my mind. 'Tis too much to happen to a man. I don't know what to say."
"Say you're my friend, that's all I want you to say."
"'Your friend'! This is not friendship. This is a thing greater than friendship. I know how to thank my God; I don't know what to say to you, master."
"Not master. Thank me by calling me 'master' no more. Thank me by seeing me oftener—both of you. Talk to me. Tell me all you believe, and why you believe it. Help me, if you can. Perhaps your God will look to it that you pay me so well that my gift shall be dross to your gold. Stranger things have happened. I'd dearly like to believe in a world beyond this, Daniel, before I go to find out for myself. Now be off for a while. Good-bye—friend Daniel."