Mr. Liddell seemed to be slumbering peacefully, when, after a long silence, during which Katherine's thoughts had traversed many a league of land and sea, he said suddenly, in stronger tones than usual, "Are you there?" He scarcely ever called her by her name.
"I am," said Katherine, coming to the bedside.
"Here, take these keys"—he drew them from under his pillows; "this one unlocks that bureau"—pointing to a large old-fashioned piece of furniture, dark and polished, which stood on one side of the fireplace; "open it, and in the top drawer left you will find a long, folded paper. Bring it to me."
Katherine did as he directed, and could not help seeing the words, "Will of John Wilmot Liddell," and a date some seven or eight years back, inscribed upon it. She handed it to her uncle, arranging his pillows so that he might sit up more comfortably, while she rather wondered at the commonplace aspect of so potent an instrument. A will, she imagined, was something huge, of parchment, with big seals attached.
John Liddell slowly put on his spectacles, and unfolding the paper, read for some time in silence.
"This will not do," he said at last, clearly and firmly. "I was mistaken in him. The care for and of money must be born in you; it cannot be taught. No, I can make a better disposition. Could you take care of money, girl?" he asked sternly.
"I should try," returned Katherine, quietly.
There was a pause. The old man lay thinking, his lean, brown hand lying on the open paper. "Write," he said at length, so suddenly and sharply that he startled his niece; get paper and write to Newton. Katherine brought the writing materials, and placed herself at the small table.
"Dear sir," he dictated—"Be so good as to come to me as soon as convenient. I wish to make a will more in accordance with my present knowledge than any executed by me formerly. I am, yours faithfully."
Katherine brought over pen and paper, and the old man affixed his signature clearly.