"Aunt Beatrice Powerson is dead," Mrs. Bradley announced with a look more of shocked surprise than of grief. "She died in Canada quite suddenly, and this is from her attorney asking us," she looked across at her husband, "to be present at the reading of the will."
"Well, well," said Mr. Bradley slowly, "poor Beatrice Powerson dead at last. I suppose she got as much out of life as any of us, though, in her eccentric way."
"It was strange," remarked Billie slowly, "that I should have been speaking of Aunt Beatrice only the other day. Violet wanted to know if she was wealthy."
"Was she, Dad?" asked Chet, with interest.
"I imagine nobody knew," his father answered. "As you know, she was queer, and as tight as a clam when it came to talking about her personal affairs. The only thing we're sure of is that she had plenty of money to travel anywhere she wanted to, and that's saying something these days."
"I say, Billie," cried Chet, his eyes shining with the thought—dear, unselfish Chet, his first hope even then was more for Billie than himself, "you are Aunt Beatrice's namesake, you know. Maybe she left you something in her will."
"Chet," his mother chided gently, "don't you think it is rather heartless to be counting on what Aunt Beatrice has left when we have just heard of her death?"
"I suppose so," said Chet, rather abashed. "But then you know we only saw her about once in every three years, and then she wasn't very friendly."
"Are you really going, Mother, you and Dad?" asked Billie, for it seemed impossible to her that her father and mother should go off on such a long journey and leave her and Chet behind. "Are you?" she asked again anxiously.
"Yes, I suppose we must," said Mrs. Bradley, looking across at her husband, who answered her with a smile.