"Well, well," said Mr. Walkingshaw, "there are my keys on the dressing-table: you know where to find the will."
Andrew went downstairs as solemnly as he had come up, and with the same faint squeak.
CHAPTER VII
It never occurred to Frank and Jean to blame their father in any way for electing so boisterous a day for his probable decease. Clearly they had not so fine an instinct for respectability as their brother. Their orthodoxy, compared with his, was built upon a sandy foundation: warm hearts can never hope to sustain, in its impressive equipoise, the head of an Andrew Walkingshaw. One might as well expect to find sap running up the legs of his office stool.
That afternoon they instinctively drifted away from the others and sat unhappily together. The gusty booming of the wind and the clash of branches in the garden across the gale-scourged street tormented them with fancies. It seemed as though a thousand riotous misfortunes were buffeting their hearts.
"Rain!" cried Jean, with a little start and then a shiver.
"Isn't it beastly?" muttered Frank, his eyes on the carpet.