"Well, Michael, if you want to make your will, I will do my best to draw it up for you. But a will is a pretty important matter."
"That's why I come to you, sor," said O'Connor, simply. I saw Mr. Cutting's eyes glisten with pleasure as he answered:
"Tell me what you want done with your property."
"That's what I don't know, sor," was O'Connor's reply. Here seemed to be a hopeless situation, until it cleared when the old man, after pulling at his beard for a while, added: "I do be thinkin' about the little felly."
"Yes?" said Mr. Cutting, with all the encouragement rising inflection can give.
"Thin," O'Connor responded, "there's the ould woman, who has been a good wife to me." Here he ruminated, his hardened hand across his seasoned lips. At length he added: "No man could ask a betther, God knows. An', thin, there's Mollie, me daughter—a shweet, good gurrul, an' his modther. But I was thinkin' about the little felly—" O'Connor's supply of speech became temporarily exhausted and the sound of his voice ceased with a long sigh of inability to further express himself.
"There may, some day, be other little fellies—or fillies," suggested Mr. Cutting, unable to resist the temptation.
"That's so-o," said O'Connor, thoughtfully. "Shure I forgot that." He leaned back in his chair and considered.
"You love them all, Michael," Mr. Cutting interposed. "Your wife and your daughter as well as your grandson?"
The reply came quickly. "I do that, sor. God bless them, ivery wan. That's what's perplexin' me, sor." Sweeter and better perplexity could no man have. Kindly anxiety overspread the old face.