“Oh, yes! And they’ve got it, too, haven’t they?” remembered Mellicent. “And Aunt Flora, and—” She stopped suddenly, a growing dismay in her eyes. “Why, he didn’t—he didn’t leave a cent to Aunt Maggie!” she cried.
“Gosh! that’s so. Say, now, that’s too bad!” There was genuine concern in Frank Blaisdell’s voice.
“But why?” almost wept Mellicent.
Her mother sighed sympathetically.
“Poor Maggie! How she is left out—always!”
“But we can give her some of ours, mother,—we can give her some of ours,” urged the girl.
“It isn’t ours to give—yet,” remarked her mother, a bit coldly.
“But, mother, you will do it,” importuned Mellicent. “You’ve always said you would, if you had it to give.”
“And I say it again, Mellicent. I shall never see her suffer, you may be sure,—if I have the money to relieve her. But—” She stopped abruptly at the sound of an excited voice down the hall. Miss Flora, evidently coming in through the kitchen, was hurrying toward them.
“Jane—Mellicent—where are you? Isn’t anybody here? Mercy me!” she panted, as she reached the room and sank into a chair. “Did you ever hear anything like it in all your life? You had one, too, didn’t you?” she cried, her eyes falling on the letter in her brother’s hand. “But ’tain’t true, of course!”