The next morning there was a buzz of excitement in the Doane home for old ladies. Word had got around that Drusilla had been left a fortune and was going away. Some of the ladies were plainly envious and said spiteful, catty things, while others were glad that at least one of their number would be able to leave behind the "home"—the living on charity—that nightmare of the old. Drusilla had endeared most of them to her by her many kindly acts, prompted by a loving heart that even years of poverty and unappreciated labor for others had not hardened.
She passed the morning in looking over her few possessions and making little packages of the things she treasured to be given to her friends after she left. The handkerchiefs she had embroidered before her eye-sight was bad, she left for Barbara. A little lace cap that had been given her years ago and which she had never worn, thinking it too "fancy," was for the old lady who had seen better days. The heavy shawl was for the oldest inmate, Grandma Perkins, who always suffered with the cold. The warm bed-stockings were neatly folded and left with a little word of love to Mary, who had rheumatism; and to Mrs. Childs, the beauty of the place, she left her lace fichu.
There was ample room within the tiny trunk for her clothing. The plain black cashmere that had been turned and returned until it had nearly forgotten its original texture, but which was her Sunday best, the two black dresses for every-day wear, the two night-dresses of Canton flannel, the woolen underskirt and the lighter one for summer, the heavy stockings, the Sunday shoes, a life of John Calvin that a director had given her, her Bible—and the packing was completed.
When Mrs. Smith came herself to tell her that Mr. Thornton had arrived, and in a motor car, she trembled so that she feared she would not be able to go down to meet him. But finally she put on the little bonnet that she had worn for many years, and her "mantle"—an antiquated wrap that had been given her by some kindly patron of former years—and went down the stairs. Mr. Thornton looked at the little old lady as she came into the room—this little, kindly-faced, white-haired old woman, who showed so plainly that life had sent her sorrow but not bitterness—and offered her his hand, saying:
"I am glad you are ready, Miss Doane. We will have a nice ride to the city."
Drusilla looked up at him like a pitiful child.
"I—I—may I set down a minute—I—I'm rather trembly. I—I didn't sleep last night a-thinkin' of it all."
She sat down and tried to still the trembling of her lips and keep the tears from her eyes. Then, after a few moments, she said:
"Will you wait here or somewhere, Mr. Thornton? I want to say good-by. Mis' Smith thought I hadn't better see the ladies until I was ready to leave, as it might upset them."
"I will wait in the car for you, Miss Doane. Don't hurry; take all the time you want."