The Hollow of Her Hand

by George Barr McCutcheon

"I suppose you have heard nothing recent from poor Lord Murgatroyd," Mrs. Wrandall was saying to her, in a most sympathetic tone.

Hetty scarcely grasped the importance of the remark. She looked rather blankly at their guest.

Sara stepped into the breach. "What do the morning despatches say, Mrs. Wrandall?"

"He is sinking rapidly, I fear. Of course, his extreme age is against him. How old is he, Miss Castleton?"

"I—I haven't the remotest idea, Mrs. Wrandall," said the girl. "He is very, very old."

"Ninety-two, the Sun says," supplied Vivian.

There was an unaccountable silence.

"I suppose there is—ah—really no hope," said Mrs. Redmond Wrandall at last.

"I fear not," said Hetty composedly. "Except for the heirs-at-law."

Mrs. Wrandall sat up a little straighter in her chair. "Dear me," she said.