Finally the long day wore away, and an hour or two after the carriages returned from the funeral, the city lawyer called the judge, and, at the judge’s suggestion, they both called for me.

We found Mrs. Markson and Helen, with some of Mrs. Markson’s relatives—­Helen had not one in the world—­in the parlor, Mrs. Markson looking extremely pretty in her neat-fitting suit of black, and Helen looking extremely disconsolate.

The judge, in a courtly, old-fashioned way, but with a good deal of heart for all that, expressed his sympathy for Helen, and I tried to say a kind word to her myself.  To be sure, it was all praise of her father, whom I really respected very highly (aside from my having had my first contract from him), but she was large-hearted enough to like it all the better for that.  I was still speaking to her when Mrs. Markson’s lawyer announced that he would read the last will and testament of the deceased; so, when she sat down on a sofa, I took a seat beside her.

The document was very brief.  He left Helen the interest of twenty thousand dollars a year, the same to cease if she married; all the rest of the property he left to his wife.  As the lawyer concluded, Helen’s face put on an expression of wonder and grief, succeeded by one of utter loneliness; while from Mrs. Markson’s eyes there flashed an exultant look that had so much of malignity in it that it made me understand the nature of Satan a great deal more clearly than any sermon ever made me do.  Poor Helen tried to meet it with fearlessness and dignity, but she seemed to feel as if even her father had abandoned her, and she dropped her head and burst into tears.

I know it wasn’t the thing to do before company, but I took her hand and called her a poor girl, and begged her to keep a good heart, and trust that her father loved her truly, and that her wrongs would be righted at the proper time.

Being kind to my fellow-creatures is the biggest part of my religion, for it’s the part of religion I understand best; but even if I had been a heathen, I couldn’t have helped wishing well to a noble, handsome woman like Helen Markson.  I tried to speak in a very low tone, but Mrs. Markson seemed to understand what I said, for she favored me with a look more malevolent than any I had ever received from my most impecunious debtor; the natural effect was to wake up all the old Adam there was in me, and to make me long for what was coming.

“May I ask the date of that will?” asked Judge Bardlow.

“Certainly, sir,” replied Mrs. Markson’s lawyer, handing the document to the judge.  The judge looked at the date, handed the will back to the lawyer, and drew from his pocket an envelope.

“Here is a will made by Mr. Markson,” said the judge, “and dated three months later.”