By B. Delavrancea
When my parents died, both in the same year, I was quite small; I think I must have been about seven years old.
I wanted to cry over them both, for I loved them both, but when I approached their coffin I was not alone.
You must know that my father left a considerable fortune.
There were many people about him who could not endure him.
There was talk of a will.
There was one member of the family about whom my father said: “It is so long since he crossed our threshold that I do not understand why he is so offended with us.”
It is unkind to tell you: it was his brother and my uncle, a very good man, with only one fault—he had lost his entire fortune at cards. I found among my father’s papers a quantity of his I.O.U.’s, beautifully signed with flourishes, but unpaid.
I approached the coffin; I was sure that I should weep as no one had ever wept before.
My home without my parents!