It was the fall of the year. The blackbirds were chattering in the hedges, and off in the fields a bob-white had begun to pipe his cheery whistle. It was all the same, but there was a great blank somewhere. I could not even cry. My heart and senses were deadened by my sorrow, and yet I felt angry, as if I had been robbed.
When we returned to the house after the funeral, Mr. Edgerton, the lawyer, was waiting.
"I have here Madam Hurdiss's warrant to examine her effects, and the key to a certain strong-box which she has directed me to open and take care of," he said. "We will start for the Gunpowder to-morrow morning. You will go with us, doctor?"
My kind friend nodded. "The young gentleman will accompany us," he replied, with a hand on my head. "He is the party most interested."
"Of course," returned the lawyer. "And we will start early."
Then he said something about its being "a most interesting case," and the two gentlemen left the room. That night, for the third time, I sobbed myself to sleep, Aunt Sheba holding my hand and crooning the old Congo song that had lulled me many times on her wide bosom.
[to be continued.]
