“We are all of us poor people,” said Mrs. Stickney quietly; “but I don’t know of any one in this house mean enough to compel a dying woman to give up anything against her will. Besides, if the instrument was good for nothing, what should a stranger want of it?”
Mr. Somerby shrugged his shoulders. “They might imagine it was valuable. Some folks are so fierce to get the earth they’ll grab any—er—old thing that floats their way. Then you think there is no use in my questioning the other residents?” He awaited her answer with sharp, half-shut eyes.
“It would hardly seem so; but, of course, you can do as you please.”
“Guess it would be a—er—waste of time, though I hate to give it up. It is possible Kit disposed of it. I’ve heard she was hard-pushed sometimes—too bad! I’d have helped her in a minute if she’d ’a’ let me; but she was a—er—proud little minx—always so—er—independent. I should like one little memento of Kit,” he mused. “I can’t realize I shall never see her toe it again.”
He rose, and with a lingering hand-shake repeated his thanks to Mrs. Stickney and The Flatiron, after which he said his good-byes.
When the feet of Mr. Somerby were actually upon the stairs, the three looked at one another. Blue threw up his arm and whirled a silent cheer. Doodles grinned delightedly.
“It is well that lock bothered,” said their mother, dropping beside the trunk again. “I’m sorry he came. I hated to quibble in that way, but I couldn’t see what else to do. We must honor the woman’s wishes, at all events. I wouldn’t let him have it now anyway,” she ended under her breath.
“Why, Doodles promised straight that he wouldn’t give it to him or anybody else—say,” Blue suddenly burst out, “I bet he lied about the fiddle, don’t you?”
“Looks a little like it,” she answered, still working at the lock, “but we can’t tell.”
“We sha’n’t dare let anybody know about it, shall we?” queried Blue.