“But she hasn’t,” interrupted Ned warningly. “I guess what Laurie was going to say, Miss Comfort, is that he—that is, we—both of—neither of us—” Laurie was smiling enjoyably—“can understand how your brother-in-law could act so—so—”
“Rotten,” supplied the irrepressible Laurie.
“I know,” replied Miss Comfort. “Perhaps I can explain a little. You might say that Mr. Goupil and I are strangers. Yes, that is scarcely an exaggeration. My sister Amanda met him in New Jersey fourteen years ago when she was teaching school there. Amanda was much younger than I and—and impulsive. I knew nothing about Mr. Goupil until she wrote to me from Chicago saying that she was married and on her way west with her husband. I was dreadfully surprised, as you can well understand, for Amanda was—” Miss Comfort hesitated, coughed and continued—“was almost fifty years of age, and I had never thought of her becoming married. In my surprise, I fear that my letter to her was not—well, quite as sympathetic as it should have been. I suppose I showed her that I was a little bit hurt because she had not confided in me earlier. That was most unfortunate, because it led to a—a misunderstanding. I tried very hard to atone, but she never forgave me, and after two years she stopped answering my letters.” Miss Comfort was silent a moment, gazing down at the thin hands folded in her lap. “I fear,” she went on at length, “Amanda gathered the impression that I didn’t approve of her husband. Well, I don’t suppose I did. I mean that I didn’t approve of him for her. You see, he was younger than Amanda by several years, and then he was a foreigner.”
“A foreigner!” exclaimed Polly. “Why, I didn’t know that, Miss Comfort.”
Miss Comfort nodded. “Yes, he was a Frenchman, Polly. Of course there are undoubtedly many most estimable French gentlemen, but it did seem to me that if Amanda had to marry she might have found a man of her own race.” Miss Comfort sighed and then she laughed apologetically. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. Oh, yes, I was trying to explain about Mr. Goupil, wasn’t I? Well, you see, after Amanda was married I never saw either her or her husband. They lived in Chicago a year or so and then moved further west, and after that I lost all trace of them until I received word lately of Amanda’s death. After that came this letter from the lawyer about the house. Maybe, you see, Mr. Goupil doesn’t feel very kindly toward me, and if he doesn’t I don’t suppose I should blame him one bit.”
“This house belongs to him now?” asked Laurie.
“Yes. My mother left a will that gave everything to Amanda, but allowed me the use of this place until Amanda’s death. Of course mother never meant it the way she wrote it. She just got a little mixed up, and as she didn’t employ a lawyer to do it for her, why, it stood just as she wrote it. I’ve often wondered,” added Miss Comfort, wrinkling her forehead, “what she did mean. I suppose she meant me to live here until my death, and not Amanda’s.”
“I’ll bet you could break a will like that,” declared Laurie eagerly.
“So Mr. Whipple told me,” responded Miss Comfort. “He was the lawyer. He’s dead now. But I didn’t like to do it. It seemed kind of—of disrespectful to mother. Besides, I never had any suspicion that I would outlast poor Amanda.”
In the ensuing silence Polly and Mae gazed sympathetically at Miss Comfort, who, smoothing the old black dress over her knees, appeared lost in her thoughts. Finally: