“The days and nights are of equal length,” said Mrs Caldwell. “Dear! dear! how soon the days will be drawing in!”
“This day last year Miss Bethia Barnes died.”
“Well, she was a good body. I trust she went to a better place.”
“And to-day her will is to be read,” went on Mr Caldwell.
“Is it indeed? Had she much property? She was a decent saving body. And who is to get it? Not that you can know, however, till the will is opened.”
“I know, having been consulted about the making of it; but that is neither here nor there at the present moment. What I mean to say is this: Being one of the executors of that will, I shall have to be in Mr Bethune’s office this morning, and so, Mr Philip, you will need to attend to the business we were speaking of last night yourself, in case I should be detained beyond my time.”
“All right!” said Philip, looking up from his paper.
“And you were consulted about the making of the poor body’s will, were you?” said Mrs Caldwell, who was by no means so silent a member of the family as her husband. “And you were made executor, and all—and you never mentioned it. Not that that is a matter for surprise, however,” added she, reconsidering the subject. “I dare say he will be ready to tell us all about it by dinner time, though no mortal power could make him open his lips this morning. Well, I hope whoever gets the money will get the good of it, though why they should have been kept out of it a whole year, I cannot see. I hope that was not by your advice. But dear! dear! money often does more harm than good, for all so hard as we strive for it.”
“It will do good this time—there is no fear,” said Mr Caldwell, rising. “It has not been striven for, nor expected, and there is not too much of it just for comfort, and—it will open the way.”
The last words struck Philip as familiar, and looking up he caught the eye of Mr Caldwell, who nodded and smiled, as though he ought to understand the whole matter by this time.