He rose; unlocked a little iron safe in the corner of the room; and returned to the table with some folded sheets of paper, which he spread open under Miss Garth’s eyes.  When she had read the first words, “In the name of God, Amen,” he turned the sheet, and pointed to the end of the next page.  She saw the well-known signature:  “Andrew Vanstone.”  She saw the customary attestations of the two witnesses; and the date of the document, reverting to a period of more than five years since.  Having thus convinced her of the formality of the will, the lawyer interposed before she could question him, and addressed her in these words: 

“I must not deceive you,” he said.  “I have my own reasons for producing this document.”

“What reasons, sir?”

“You shall hear them.  When you are in possession of the truth, these pages may help to preserve your respect for Mr. Vanstone’s memory—­”

Miss Garth started back in her chair.

“What do you mean?” she asked, with a stern straightforwardness.

He took no heed of the question; he went on as if she had not interrupted him.

“I have a second reason,” he continued, “for showing you the will.  If I can prevail on you to read certain clauses in it, under my superintendence, you will make your own discovery of the circumstances which I am here to disclose—­circumstances so painful that I hardly know how to communicate them to you with my own lips.”

Miss Garth looked him steadfastly in the face.

“Circumstances, sir, which affect the dead parents, or the living children?”

“Which affect the dead and the living both,” answered the lawyer.  “Circumstances, I grieve to say, which involve the future of Mr. Vanstone’s unhappy daughters.”

“Wait,” said Miss Garth, “wait a little.”  She pushed her gray hair back from her temples, and struggled with the sickness of heart, the dreadful faintness of terror, which would have overpowered a younger or a less resolute woman.  Her eyes, dim with watching, weary with grief, searched the lawyer’s unfathomable face.  “His unhappy daughters?” she repeated to herself, vacantly.  “He talks as if there was some worse calamity than the calamity which has made them orphans.”  She paused once more; and rallied her sinking courage.  “I will not make your hard duty, sir, more painful to you than I can help,” she resumed.  “Show me the place in the will.  Let me read it, and know the worst.”

Mr. Pendril turned back to the first page, and pointed to a certain place in the cramped lines of writing.  “Begin here,” he said.

She tried to begin; she tried to follow his finger, as she had followed it already to the signatures and the dates.  But her senses seemed to share the confusion of her mind—­the words mingled together, and the lines swam before her eyes.

“I can’t follow you,” she said.  “You must tell it, or read it to me.”  She pushed her chair back from the table, and tried to collect herself.  “Stop!” she exclaimed, as the lawyer, with visible hesitation and reluctance, took the papers in his own hand.  “One question, first.  Does his will provide for his children?”