In the bank Herbert Wheeler spent long hours handling money that was not his, only to hurry home and spend other long hours over a tiny lawn and a tinier garden, where every blade of grass and every lettuce-head were marvels of grace and beauty, simply because they were his.
It was June now, and the lawn and the garden were very important; but it was on a June morning that the large blue envelope came. Herbert went home that night and burst into the kitchen like a whirlwind.
"Jessica, we 've got one at last," he cried.
"One what?"
"An automobile."
Jessica sat down helplessly. In each hand she held an egg—she had been selecting two big ones for an omelet.
"Herbert, are you crazy? What are you talking about?" she demanded.
"About our automobile, to be sure," he retorted. "'T was Cousin
John's. I heard to-day—he's left it to us."
"To us! But we hardly knew him, and he was only a third or fourth cousin, anyway, was n't he? Why, we never even thought of going to the funeral!"
"I know; but he was a queer old codger, and he took a great fancy to you when he saw you. Don't you remember? Anyhow, the deed is done."