“Well, don’t you go a-carryin’ on that way,” said Sam, still unmollified and eyeing her threateningly.

“You don’t lay a finger on the clock,” said Susan Vacher with spirit.  “Who told you that clock was Abel’s?  It’s a-been there ever since my mother’s time, and I’ve a-wound it up myself every Saturday night.”

“That clock belonged to Abel,” repeated Jenny emphatically, “and he’ve a-left it to me in his will.”

She drew a piece of paper from her pocket, opened it slowly, and proceeded to read its contents aloud, with great dignity.

“‘In case o’ my death, I, Abel Guppy, bein’ firm in mind and body—­’”

“What does he mean by that?” interrupted Betty.  “Lawyer Wiggins did make my father’s will an’ ’tweren’t wrote that way.  What’s ’firm in mind and body’?”

“This ’ere was copied from a pattern will what was bought for sixpence up to Mr. Marsh’s in town,” said Jenny loftily.  “It do begin, ’I, M.N., bein’ o’ sound mind though infirm in body’—­Abel, d’ye see, weren’t infirm in body; he were as well as ever he were in his life, poor chap, when he did set out.”

“Well, let’s hear,” said Susan with a martyrised air.

“‘I, Abel Guppy,’” resumed Jenny, “‘bein’ firm in mind and body, do hereby state as I wish for to leave my sweetheart, Jenny Pitcher, if I do die in this ’ere war, all what I’ve a-got in this world.  The money in the Savings Bank—­’” Betty groaned and threw up her eyes to heaven; Susan involuntarily clenched her fist; Sam’s brow cleared.

“‘The money in the Savings Bank,’” repeated Jenny unctuously, “’and any bits o’ furniture what belongs to I, more partic’lar the clock over the chimney-piece, the two chaney dogs, and the warmin’-pan—­’”

“Well, I never!” interrupted Susan; “them two chaney dogs my mother bought herself off a pedlar that come to the door.  I mind it so well as if it were yesterday.”

“Very like she did,” returned Jenny sharply.  “And when she died hadn’t Abel’s father, what was her eldest son, the best right to ’em?  And when he went to his long home they was Abel’s, and now they’m mine—­and the warmin’-pan too,” she added defiantly.

“Well, of all the oudacious—­” Susan was beginning, when Jenny cut her short, continuing to read in a high clear voice—­

“’And half-a-dozen silver spoons, also the hearth-rug what was made out o’ my old clothes—­’”

“I’m—­I’m blowed if you shall get the hearthrug,” cried Susan explosively.  “That’s mine whatever the rest mid be.  Them clothes was only fit to put on a scarecrow, an’ I cut ’em up, and picked out the best bits, and split up a wold sack and sewed on every mortial rag myself; and I made a border out of a wold red skirt o’ mine.”

“And a handsome thing it is too, my dear,” said Betty admiringly.

“They was Abel’s clothes, though,” said Jenny; “ye can’t get out o’ that, Miss Vacher.”