“Nor children——”
“The idea!” snapped Mrs. Holmes. “Poor little Ebbie and Rebbie had to be born somewhere.”
“Nor paralysis——”
“That was Cousin Si Martin,” said Mrs. Dodd, half to herself. “He was took bad with it in the night.”
“He has never come to spend Christmas with me and remained until the ensuing dog days, nor sent me a crayon portrait of himself”—Mr. Perkins faltered here, but nobly went on—“nor had typhoid fever, nor finished up his tuberculosis, nor cut teeth, nor set the house on fire with a bath cabinet——”
At this juncture Uncle Israel was so overcome with violent emotion that it was some time before the reading could proceed.
“Never having come into any kind of relations with my dear nephew, James Harlan Carr,” continued Mr. Perkins, in troubled tones, “I have shown my gratitude in this humble way. To him I give the house and all my furniture, my books and personal effects of every kind, my farm in Hill County, two thousand acres, all improved and clear of incumbrance, except blooded stock,——”
“I never knowed ’e ’ad no farm,” interrupted Mrs. Smithers.
“And the ten thousand and eighty-four dollars in the City Bank which at this writing is there to my credit, but will be duly transferred, and my dear Rebecca’s diamond pin to be given to my beloved nephew’s wife when he marries. It is all in my will, which my dear friend Jeremiah Bradford has, and which he will read at the proper time to those concerned.”
“The old snake!” shrieked Mrs. Holmes.