“At the time when your will was executed,” the lawyer went on, “Father Benwell obtained your permission to take a copy of it.  Hearing of your illness, he submitted the copy to a high legal authority.  The written opinion of this competent person declares the clause, bequeathing the Vange estate to Father Benwell, to be so imperfectly expressed, that the will might be made a subject of litigation after the testator’s death.  He has accordingly appended a form of codicil amending the defect, and we have added it to the will.  I thought it my duty, as one of your legal advisers, to accompany Father Benwell on his return to Paris in charge of the will—­in case you might feel disposed to make any alteration.”  He looked toward Stella and the child as he completed that sentence.  The Jesuit’s keen eyes took the same direction.  “Shall I read the will, sir?” the lawyer resumed; “or would you prefer to look at it yourself?”

Romayne held out his hand for the will, in silence.  He was still watching his son.  There were but few more sticks now left to be thrown in the fire.

Father Benwell interfered, for the first time.

“One word, Mr. Romayne, before you examine that document,” he said.  “The Church receives back from you (through me) the property which was once its own.  Beyond that it authorizes and even desires you to make any changes which you or your trusted legal adviser may think right.  I refer to the clauses of the will which relate to the property you have inherited from the late Lady Berrick—­and I beg the persons present to bear in memory the few plain words that I have now spoken.”

He bowed with dignity and drew back.  Even the lawyer was favorably impressed.  The doctors looked at each other with silent approval.  For the first time, the sad repose of Stella’s face was disturbed—­I could see that it cost her an effort to repress her indignation.  The one unmoved person was Romayne.  The sheet of paper on which the will was written lay unregarded upon his lap; his eyes were still riveted on the little figure at the fireplace.

The child had thrown his last stick into the glowing red embers.  He looked about him for a fresh supply, and found nothing.  His fresh young voice rose high through the silence of the room.

“More!” he cried.  “More!”

His mother held up a warning finger.  “Hush!” she whispered.  He shrank away from her as she tried to take him on her knee, and looked across the room at his father.  “More!” he burst out louder than ever.  Romayne beckoned to me, and pointed to the boy.

I led him across the room.  He was quite willing to go with me—­he reiterated his petition, standing at his father’s knees.

“Lift him to me,” said Romayne.

I could barely hear the words:  even his strength to whisper seemed to be fast leaving him.  He kissed his son—­with a panting fatigue under that trifling exertion, pitiable to see.  As I placed the boy on his feet again, he looked up at his dying father, with the one idea still in his mind.