“Shall you leave your money to a charity, dear Aunt Wroat?” inquired Mrs. Blight caressingly.
“No, no! I shall leave it to—But don’t ask me. You’ll know in good time.”
The lawyer looked significantly at his wife.
“She means to leave it to us!” he whispered. “The old nuisance will pay us for our trouble at last.”
It was singular that just then another fit of coughing attacked the old lady. When it was over, she said sharply:
“I’ll go to my room. I want to be composed, or I sha’n’t sleep a wink to-night. We’ll visit to-morrow, but I am tired after my journey. I should like some one to play a little music for me in my room, but I don’t want any sentimental songs from your girls, Laura.”
“The governess will sing and play for you, dear Aunt Wroat,” said Mrs. Blight. “She has orders to obey you during your visit, and you can command her at any or all hours.”
“Then send her to me in half an hour. Charles, you can carry me up stairs.”
The lawyer obeyed the intimation, carrying the old lady up to her own room and depositing her in her armchair. The maid was in attendance, and the lawyer and his wife bade their guest an affecting good-night, and retreated to the drawing-room to speculate upon their prospects and the state of Mrs. Wroat’s health.
“Shut the door, Peters,” said the old lady. “And you might open the windows and air the room after those people’s presence.”