“The night he died,” she went on breathlessly, “he had been looking at a number of wills he kept hidden in mamma’s old sewing-table. I put them back in the drawer. I suppose Mr. Thurston will ask for them when he comes.”
“Yes; he should see all such papers. You must tell him everything you know that relates to them.”
“I almost burnt them all up last night,” she exclaimed in a strange, hard tone. “That one I read made me angry. I thought it niggardly and unjust. And—some one told me”—in her eagerness to make her confession complete she nearly blurted out Copeland’s name—“that if there should be no will I’d inherit everything. And last night I fought that out. And it was a hard fight; it was horrible! But for once in my life I got a grip on myself. You may remember saying to me, ‘Don’t wobble.’ Well, I wobbled till I was dizzy—but I wobbled right! And now that that’s over, I believe—though I’m afraid to say it aloud—that I’m a different sort of a girl some way. I hope so; I mean to be very, very different.”
“You poor, dear, little Nan,” he said softly. “I’m proud of you—but not very much surprised!”
“But you see it doesn’t count, anyhow,” she said, smiling, pleased and touched by his praise. “If there’s a will, it’s bad; if there isn’t, I’m not to be considered!”
“Don’t belittle your victory by measuring it against mere money. As for those purely business matters, they’ll be attended to. You’re not going to be thrown out on the world just yet.”
“I shouldn’t cry—not now—if it came to that! Now that I know what they mean, I think I rather like these little wars that go on inside of us. But I tell you it was good to see the daylight this morning and know I could pass a mirror and not be afraid of my own face!”
“It is rather nicer that way; much nicer,” he said, with his rare smile. “I’m glad you told me this. I see that I don’t need to worry about you any more.”
“You haven’t really been doing that?”
“At times, at times, my dear Nan,” he said, looking at her quizzically, “you’ve brought me to the verge of insomnia!”