“Gone—are you gone?” said Mrs. Somerton, awaking from her brief sleep.
“No, I am here,” said her husband, removing a crape hatband from his hat and laying it upon the table.
“Ah, it’s you, Luke; I have had Mr. Phillips, the painter, here.”
“Yes,” said Luke—“yes; and what has he to say for himself?” asked the bailiff.
“Not much; I think I have done all the talking, Luke. And so you have buried the poor gentleman?” she went on, mournfully.
“Yes, poor fellow; not many better men ever were buried than he,” said Luke.
“And now—now they are going to read the will, I suppose?”
“They were all going into the dining-room as I came past. The lawyer asked me to come in; but I thought you’d be lonely, Sarah, and so I came home.”
Mrs. Somerton could not help thinking that Luke had better have stayed and heard the will read; but she was too considerate now, to say so.
“You are very kind, Luke; but how shall we know all about it?”