Her father shook his head. “Mornin', John,” he said. “I beg your pardon. I ain't responsible to-day, I shouldn't wonder. I—I've had some news that's drivin' everything else out of my mind.”
“News? Why, Dad! what do you mean? Bad news?”
“No, no! Good as ever was, and.... Humph! no, I don't mean that. It is bad news, of course. Your Great-aunt Laviny's dead, Gertie.”
He told of the lawyer's letter, omitting for the present the news of the legacy. Gertrude was interested, but not greatly shocked or grieved. She had met her great-aunt but once during her lifetime, and her memory of the deceased was of a stately female, whose earrings and brooches and rings sparkled as if she was on fire in several places; who sat bolt upright at the further end of a hotel room in Boston, and ordered Captain Dan not to bring “that child” any nearer until its hands were washed. As she had been the child and had distinctly disagreeable recollections of the said hands having been washed three times before admittance to the presence, the memory was not too pleasant. She said she was sorry to hear that Aunt Lavinia was no more, and asked when it happened. Her father told what he knew of the circumstances attending the bereavement, which was not much.
“She's gone, anyhow,” he said. “It's liable to happen to any of us, bein' cut off that way. We ought to be prepared, I suppose.”
“I suppose so. But, Daddy, Aunt Lavinia wasn't cut off exactly, was she? She was your aunt and she must have been quite old.”
“Hey? Why, let's see. She was your grandpa's brother's wife, and he—Uncle Jim, I mean—was about four years older than Father. She was three years younger'n he was when he married her. Let's see again. Father—that's your grandpa, Gertie—was sixty-five when he died and... Humph! No, Aunt Laviny was eighty-eight, or thereabouts. She wasn't exactly cut off, was she, come to think of it?”
Gertrude's brown eyes twinkled. “Not exactly—no,” she said, gravely. “Well, Daddy, I'm sure I am sorry she has gone, but, considering that she has never deigned to visit us or have us visit her, or even to write you a letter for the past two years, I don't think we should be expected to mourn greatly. And,” glancing at him, “I don't understand just what you meant by saying first that the news was good, and then that it was bad. There is something else, isn't there?”
Her father smiled, in an embarrassed way. “Well, ye—es,” he admitted, “there is somethin' else, but—but I don't know as I didn't do wrong to feel so good over it. I—I guess I'll tell you by and by, if you don't mind. Maybe then I won't feel—act, I mean—so tickled. It don't seem right that I should be. Let me get sort of used to it first. I'll tell you pretty soon.”
His daughter laughed, softly. “I know you will, Dad,” she said. “You couldn't keep a secret in that dear old head of yours if you tried. Not from me, anyway; could you, dear?”