“A change in her appearance and manners: she appeared to recover in part her former position in life; she was always clean in her person, as far as she could be in such a shop as hers; and if she had nothing else, she always had a clean cap and apron.”
“Indeed?”
“Yes; and on Sundays she dressed very neat and tidy. She did not go to church, but she purchased a large Bible and a pair of spectacles, and was often to be seen reading it at the door; and when I talked to her she was glad to enter upon serious things. I spoke to her about her fondness for money, and pointed out that it was a sin. She replied that she did feel very fond of money for a long while, for she always thought that some one was nigh her snatching at it, and had done so ever since her son had robbed her; but that since she knew what had become of him she did not feel fond of it—that is, not so fond of it as before; and I believe that such was the case. Her love of money arose from her peculiar state of mind. She had many comforts about her house when she died, which were not in it when I called to see her at the time when she was first ill; but her purchasing the large Bible on account of the print was to me a satisfactory proof that she had no longer such avaricious feelings.”
“I am very glad to hear all this, Anderson, I assure you, for she was one of my earliest friends, and I loved her.”
“Not more than she loved you, Tom. Her last words almost were calling down blessings on your head; and, thanks be to God! she died as a Christian should die, and, I trust, is now happy.”
“Amen!” said I; for I was much moved at Anderson’s discourse.
After a pause Anderson said, “You know, Tom, that she has left you all that she had. She told me before that such was her intention, although I said nothing to you about it, but I thought it as well that Mr Wilson should make out a paper for her to put her name to, which she did. Ben and I witnessed it, but as for what she has left you, I cannot imagine it can be much, for we examined and found no money except about seven pounds in two small boxes: and then in her will she has left your sister Virginia ten pounds; now, when that comes to be paid, I’m sure I don’t know whether the things in the shop will fetch so much money as will pay your sister’s legacy and the expenses of her funeral.”
“It’s of no consequence,” replied I, smiling; “but we shall see. At all events, all her debts shall be paid, and her funeral shall be decent and respectable. Good bye now, Anderson, I must go up and see my mother and sister.”
Old Nanny’s remains were consigned to the tomb on the following Monday. Her funeral was, as I had desired it to be, very respectable, and she was followed to the grave by Anderson, my father, Ben, and me. As soon as it was over, I requested Anderson to walk with me to Mr Wilson’s.
“I’m afraid, Tom,” said Mr Wilson, “you’ll find, like a great many other residuary legatees, that you’ve not gained much by the compliment.”