"I have been thinking again and again, Saunders," said the Laird, "o' yer great kindness. You are the first man that ever left me a farthing. The warld has rugged aff me since ever I had a feather to pick. Nane has ever offered me either a bite or a sup. You are the only friend I've ever met upon earth."
"I hae only obeyed the dictates o' my heart," replied Saunders; "and I am glad I have dune it, for I feel mysel very weakly, and fear the clock o' this world's time will be wound up wi' me in a very short period."
"Maybe no so sune as ye think, Saunders," replied the Laird. "But my purpose is executed. Saunders, you are my heir. Hand me that box there."
Saunders took up a small mahogany box that lay on the table, and handed it to him.
"Here," continued the Laird, taking out a paper; "here is my will. It's a' in your favour, Saunders—lands, houses, guids, and chattels, heritable and moveable. Say naething; you are my heir. Ha! ha! let the corbies croak. You've dune me a guid service; I winna be ahint ye. Tak the box into yer ain keeping. I'll keep the key. Awa wi't this instant. Ha! ha! let the corbies croak."
Saunders obeyed. He carried the box into his own house, placed it in his cupboard, locked the door, and put the key into his pocket.
In about a month afterwards, old Laird Rorieson departed this life. On the day of his death, his nephews and nieces were in great commotion, and there was a terrible running to and fro, and much whispering, and wondering, and gossiping—all on the great subject of the death of Uncle Geordie. On the day of his funeral, they were all collected, to see whether there was any will. They, of course, wished that there should be none, because they, being his heirs, would succeed to all, if there was no disposition of the old man's effects. By some means, Saunders Gibbieson contrived to be present along with the expectants. Perhaps he was allowed to be among them in the character of a witness; but indeed, so certain were the nephews and nieces of having succeeded in their efforts to please the dear old man, that they could afford to allow the presence of any number of witnesses who could vouch for the sacred gravity of their countenances, and the deep sorrows of their bereaved hearts. Nor was Saunders less under the affection of lugubriousness himself; so that it was altogether one of those beautiful sights so often witnessed on such melancholy occasions, where every indication of selfishness is banished, and nothing can be observed save that Christian solemnity which proveth that "the devil hath been cast out of the heart of man, even when he did appear to be strong." The nephews and the nieces looked at Saunders, and Saunders looked at them, and so solemn were these looks, that though the writer was searching about for a will, no one seemed to care whether he found one or not. It has been said that "the heart of man is deceitful above all things;" but of a surety the adage could not have been spoken there, except with the determination to get it disproved for once in the world, and the blessed object of shewing to us sons of the seed of Abraham that we are not so wicked as we are called.
At length the ominous little box was laid hold of and broken open, amidst a pretty nonchalance, and lo! there was indeed a paper, bearing the fearful word "Will," and the faces of the heirs turned as pale as the paper itself. It was opened; but it was a fair, clean sheet of paper, and not a drop of ink had stained its purity. "All safe, all safe," muttered the heirs.
"Here is another box," said Saunders Gibbieson, holding up the mahogany one; "let us try it." And he opened it, and took out Geordie's will. The writer read it aloud. Saunders was sole heir to all the old miser's possessions, amounting to £10,000. No one could tell the reason why there were two papers marked "Will," and one of them a blank sheet; and Saunders, simple man, did not trouble himself to give any explanation.