"Better enter one," said Mr. Street, shortly. "The pleasantest life is the one that has its regular occupation; the most miserable a life of idleness."
"That's true," put in the major. "Since I left the service, I have been like a fish out of water. Sometimes, before the day has well begun I wish it was ended, not knowing what to do with myself."
"Not many weeks ago, Mrs. Atkinson was talking to me about that very thing, major. She fancied you would have done better not to sell out."
"Ay; I've often said so myself. Poor Ann! I should like to have seen more of her. But she had her crotchets, you know, Street. Did she suffer much at the last, I wonder?"
"No, she went off quite easily, as one who is worn out. She is lying in the red room: I have been up to see her. A good woman; but, as you observe, major, crotchety on some points."
"Why, would you believe it, Street, she once thought of disinheriting me."
"I know it," replied the lawyer. "It was the year following her husband's death. And perhaps," he added, with as much of a smile as ever came to his lips, "you owe it to me that she did not do so."
"Indeed! How was that?"
"I received a letter from her, calling me here for the purpose, she said, of altering her will. Away I came, bringing the will with me—for I held one copy of it, as you may remember, Major Raynor, and you the other. 'I want to disinherit my brother,' were the first words she said to me; 'I shall leave Eagles' Nest to George Atkinson: I always wished him to have it.' Of course I asked her the why and the wherefore. 'Francis has affronted me, and he shall not inherit it,' was all the explanation I could get from her. Well, major, I talked to her, and brought her into a more reasonable frame of mind: and the result was, that I carried the original will back to town with me, unaltered."
"Poor Ann! poor Ann!" re-echoed the major.