"I know you were my father's friend," the girl interrupted; "I don't care about the rest. Possibly I couldn't understand it. I know very little about business, but I knew my father."
She got up, holding her head high in grief-stricken pride, and gave her hand to her host and hostess.
The younger Burson girl emerged from the kitchen, a dish-towel and a half-wiped plate clasped to her breast, and watched the visitor as she went down the path.
"Her silk waist doesn't begin to touch Millie's for style," she said pensively, "and her skirt doesn't even drag; but there's something about her."
"Yes," acquiesced Mrs. Burson, "there is something about her."
Erastus sat on the edge of the old rep lounge, looking absently at the papers.
"In the event of my death, to be delivered to my friend Erastus Burson," was written on the package.
His wife came and stood over him.
"I don't know just what it means, mother," he said, "there's a deed, and my note marked 'Paid,' and a lot of two-bit and four-bit pieces. I'll have to get somebody to explain it."
He sat quite still until the woman laid her large hand on his bowed head. Then he looked up, with moist, winking eyes.