“The poor child!”
“And why are you leaving me out?”
“I don’t want to leave you out, Mr. Sheriff—”
“Oh, say Amos when you’re sick, Miss Clark,” he cried, impulsively; she seemed so little, so feeble, and so alone.
“You’re a kind man, Amos Wickliff,” said she. “Now first tell me, would you give the Colonel and ’Squire a home as long as they need it?”
Amos gave an inward gasp; but it may be imputed to him for righteousness some day that there was only an imperceptible pause before he answered, “Yes, ma’am, I will; and take good care of them, too.”
“Here’s something for you, then; take it now.” She handed him a large envelope, sealed. “It’s for any expenses, you know. And—I’ll send ’em over to-morrow.”
He took the package rather awkwardly. “Now you know you have a nephew—” he began.
“I know, and I know why he’s here, too. And in that paper is my will; but don’t you open it till I’m dead a month, will you?”
Amos promised in spite of a secret misgiving.