“What do you mean?” The innuendo at the end diverted her wrath at the man’s hateful coarseness.

“Mean?  Oh, o’ course, you’re innocent as a lamb!  Mean?  Why, look here.”

He opened the chest again, and, drawing out a scrap of folded foolscap, began to read :—­

“I, Ebenezer Transom, of Compton Burrows, in the parish of Compton, yeoman, being of sound wit and health, and willing, though a sinner, to give my account to God, do hereby make my last will and testament.”

    “My house, lands, and farm of Compton Burrows, together with every
    stick that I own, I hereby (for her good care of me) give and
    bequeath to Elizabeth Rundle, my dead sister’s child”

—­“Let be, I tell you!”

But ’Lizabeth had snatched the paper from him.  For a moment the devil in his eye seemed to meditate violence.  But he thought better of it; and when she asked for the candle held it beside her as she read on slowly.

“_ . . . to Elizabeth Rundle, my dead sister’s child, desiring that she may marry and bequeath the same to the heirs of her body; less the sum of one shilling sterling, which I command to be sent to my only surviving son William—­”

“You needn’t go on,” growled William.

“_ . . . because he’s a bad lot, and he may so well know I think
so.  And to this I set my hand, this 17th day of September, 1856._”
“Signed”
“Ebenezer Transom.”

“Witnessed by”
“John Hooper.”
“Peter Tregaskis.”

The document was in the old man’s handwriting, and clearly of his composition.  But it was plain enough, and the signatures genuine.  ’Lizabeth’s hand dropped.

“I never knew a word o’ this, William,” she said humbly.

Mrs. Transom broke into an incredulous titter.

“Ugh! get along, you designer!”

“William,” appealed ‘Lizabeth, “I’ve never had no thought o’ robbin’ you.”

’Lizabeth had definite notions of right and wrong, and this disinheritance of William struck her conservative mind as a violation of Nature’s laws.

William’s silence was his wife’s opportunity.

“Robbery’s the word, you baggage!  You thought to buy him wi’ your ill-got gains.  Ugh! go along wi’ you!”

’Lizabeth threw a desperate look towards the cause of this trouble—­the pale mask lying on the pillows.  Finding no help, she turned to William again—­

“You believe I meant to rob you?”

Meeting her eyes, William bent his own on the floor, and lied.

“I reckon you meant to buy me, Cousin ’Lizabeth.”

His wife tittered spitefully.

“Woman!” cried the girl, lapping up her timid merriment in a flame of wrath.  “Woman, listen to me.  Time was I loved that man o’ your’n; time was he swore I was all to him.  He was a liar from his birth.  It’s your natur’ to think I’m jealous; a better woman would know I’m sick—­sick wi’ shame an’ scorn o’ mysel’.  That man, there, has kissed me, oft’n an’ oft’n—­kissed me ‘pon the mouth.  Bein’ what you are, you can’t understand how those kisses taste now, when I look at you.”