“Certainly.”
“And I cannot make a will, but I know that I can trust my dear brother to execute my wishes as conscientiously as if they were expressed in the most legally drawn up testament that ever was framed.”
“Indeed you may, my dear,” replied the pastor, as he once more bathed her face and head in the reviving Cologne water.
“Well, please tell Justin, then, my last dying wishes.”
The doctor took out his note-book and pencil to assist his memory, if future need should be.
“I wish Justin to take one third of the whole of my property for himself, and to give a second third to Britomarte Conyers, whom I feel sure that he will eventually marry, and to give the remaining third—”
Dr. Sales wrote all this down in his note-book, and then looked up to see why Erminie did not continue. And he saw that she had again grown deadly faint.
“Oh, Father in Heaven! she is hastening her own death by all this effort,” cried the pastor, in deep distress, as he threw down his note-book and caught up a bottle of Cologne water and freely bathed her face, head and hands.
Again she rallied, smiled, and pointed to the note-book, mutely begging him to take it up and proceed with his work.
“My child, my child, you are too feeble for all this exertion. I must insist upon your resting for awhile,” said Dr. Sales.