But the captain did not answer. Through dining-room, sitting-room, and parlor he galloped, and up the front stairs to the bedroom occupied by himself and wife. Mrs. Dott was standing before the mirror, red-faced and panting, both arms behind her and her fingers busily engaged. Her husband's breath was almost gone by the time he reached the foot of the stairs; consequently his entrance was a trifle less noisy and startling than his sky-rocket flight through the kitchen. It is doubtful if his wife would have noticed even if it had been. She caught a glimpse of him in the mirror, and heaved a sigh of relief.
“Oh, it's you, is it!” she panted. “My, I'm glad! For mercy sakes fasten those last three hooks; I'm almost distracted with 'em.”
But the hooks remained unfastened for the time. Captain Dan threw himself into a chair and waved the letter.
“Serena,” he cried, puffing like a stranded porpoise, “what—WHAT do you suppose has happened? Aunt Laviny is dead.”
Serena turned. “Dead!” she repeated. “Your Aunt Lavinia Dott? The rich one?”
“Yes, sir; she's gone. Died in Italy a fortnight ago. Naples, I think 'twas—or some such outlandish place; you know she's done nothin' but cruise around Europe ever since Uncle Jim died. The letter says she was taken sick on a Friday, and died Sunday, so 'twas pretty sudden. I—”
But Mrs. Dott interrupted. “What else does it say?” she asked excitedly. “What else does that letter say? Who is if from?”
“It's from her lawyers up to Boston. What made you think it said anything else?”
“Because I'm not blind and I can see your face, Daniel Dott. What else does it say? Tell me! Has she—did she—?”
Captain Dan nodded solemnly. “She didn't forget us,” he said. “She didn't forget us, Serena. The letter says her will gives us that solid silver teapot and sugar-bowl that was presented to Uncle Jim by the Ship Chandlers' Society, when he was president of it. She willed that to us. She knew I always admired that tea-pot and—”