“I guess she spent that five hundred on her wedding fix,” said Sylvia.
“It was a queer will,” stammered Henry.
“I think the old man always looked at Abrahama as his son and heir,” said the lawyer. “She was named for him, and his father before him, you know. I always thought the poor old girl deserved the lion's share for being saddled with such a name, anyhow.”
“It was a dreadful name, and she was such a beautiful girl and woman,” said Sylvia. She already spoke of Abrahama in the past tense. “I wonder where the niece is,” she added.
“The last I heard of her she was living with some rich people in New York,” replied Meeks. “I think they took her in some capacity after her father and mother died.”
“I hope she didn't go out to work as hired girl,” said Sylvia. “It would have been awful for a granddaughter of Abraham White's to do that. I wonder if Abrahama never wrote to her, nor did anything for her.”
“I don't think she ever had the slightest communication with Susy after she married, or her husband, or the daughter,” replied Meeks. “In fact, I practically know she did not.”
“If the poor girl didn't do well, Abrahama had a good deal to answer for,” said Sylvia, thoughtfully. She looked worried. Then again that expression of almost idiotic joy overspread her face. “That old White homestead is beautiful—the best house in town,” she said.
“There's fifty acres of land with it, too,” said Meeks.
Sylvia and Henry looked at each other. Both hesitated. Then Henry spoke, stammeringly: