“I do not wish to discuss it,” interrupted Hiram, with that gruff finality of manner which he always used to hide his softness, and which deceived everyone, often even his wife.  “Come back at five o’clock with two witnesses.”

Torrey rose, his body shifting with his shifting mind as he cast about for an excuse for lingering.  “Very well, Hiram,” he finally said.  As he shook hands, he blurted out huskily, “The boy’s a fine young fellow, Hi.  It don’t seem right to disgrace him by cutting him off this way.”

Hiram winced.  “Wait a minute,” he said.  He had been overlooking the public—­how the town would gossip and insinuate.  “Put in this, Torrey,” he resumed after reflecting.  And deliberately, with long pauses to construct the phrases, he dictated:  “I make this disposal of my estate through my love for my children, and because I have firm belief in the soundness of their character and in their capacity to do and to be.  I feel they will be better off without the wealth which would tempt my son to relax his efforts to make a useful man of himself and would cause my daughter to be sought for her fortune instead of for herself.”

“That may quiet gossip against your children,” said Torrey, when he had taken down Hiram’s slowly enunciated words, “but it does not change the extraordinary character of the will.”

“John,” said Hiram, “can you think of a single instance in which inherited wealth has been a benefit, a single case where a man has become more of a man than he would if he hadn’t had it?”

Hiram waited long.  Torrey finally said:  “That may be, but—­” But what?  Torrey did not know, and so came to a full stop.

“I’ve been trying for weeks to think of one,” continued Hiram, “and whenever I thought I’d found one, I’d see, on looking at all the facts, that it only seemed to be so.  And I recalled nearly a hundred instances right here in Saint X where big inheritances or little had been ruinous.”

“I have never thought on this aspect of the matter before,” said Torrey.  “But to bring children up in the expectation of wealth, and then to leave them practically nothing, looks to me like—­like cheating them.”

“It does, John,” Hiram answered.  “I’ve pushed my boy and my girl far along the broad way that leads to destruction.  I must take the consequences.  But God won’t let me divide the punishment for my sins with them.  I see my duty clear.  I must do it.  Bring the will at five o’clock.”

Hiram’s eyes were closed; his voice sounded to Torrey as if it were the utterance of a mind far, far away—­as far away as that other world which had seemed vividly real to Hiram all his life; it seemed real and near to Torrey, looking into his old friend’s face.  “The power that’s guiding him,” Torrey said to himself, “is one I daren’t dispute with.”  And he went away with noiseless step and with head reverently bent.

CHAPTER VI