“You've done right, Auntie,” said Philip.
“Yes, the High Bailiff has been up and everything is in order, every little thing. See,” and she lifted the paper that the maid had laid on the counterpane. “Let me tell you.” She nodded her head as she ran over the items. “Some little legacies first, you know. There's Martha, such a good girl—I've left her my silk dresses. Then old Mary, the housemaid at Ballawhaine. Poor old thing! she's been down with rheumatism three years, and flock beds get so lumpy—I've left her my feather one. I thought at first I should like you to have my little income. Do you know, your old auntie is quite an old miser. I've grown so fond of my little money. And it seemed so sweet to think—but then you don't want it now, Philip. It would be nothing to you, would it? I've been thinking, though—now, what do you think I've been thinking of doing with my little fortune?”
Philip stroked the wrinkled fingers with his other hand.
“What's right, I'm sure, Auntie. What is it?”
“You would never guess.”—“No?”
“I've been thinking,” with sudden gravity. “Philip, there's nobody in the world so unhappy as a poor gentlewoman who has slipped and fallen. Then this one's father, he has turned his back on her, they're telling me, and of course she can't expect anything from her husband. I've been thinking, now——”
“Yes?” said Philip, with his eyes down.
“To tell you the truth, I've been thinking it would be so nice——”
And then, nervously, faltering, in a quavering voice, with many excuses, out came the great secret, the mighty strategy. Auntie Nan had willed her fortune to Kate.
“You're an angel, Auntie,” said Philip in a thick voice.