Chapter II

There was another silence.  The husband and wife were pale, with mouths agape like fishes.  So little prosperity had come into their lives that they were rendered almost idiotic by its approach.

“Us?” said Sylvia, at length, with a gasp.

“Us?” said Henry.

“Yes, you,” said Sidney Meeks.

“What about Rose Fletcher, Abrahama’s sister Susy’s daughter?” asked Sylvia, presently.  “She is her own niece.”

“You know Abrahama never had anything to do with Susy after she married John Fletcher,” replied the lawyer.  “She made her will soon afterward, and cut her off.”

“I remember what they said at the time,” returned Sylvia.  “They all thought John Fletcher was going to marry Abrahama instead of Susy.  She was enough sight more suitable age for him.  He was too old for Susy, and Abrahama, even if she wasn’t young, was a beautiful woman, and smarter than Susy ever thought of being.”

“Susy had the kind of smartness that catches men,” said the lawyer, with a slight laugh.

“I always wondered if John Fletcher hadn’t really done a good deal to make Abrahama think he did want her,” said Sylvia.  “He was just that kind of man.  I never did think much of him.  He was handsome and glib, but he was all surface.  I guess poor Abrahama had some reason to cut off Susy.  I guess there was some double-dealing.  I thought so at the time, and now this will makes me think so even more.”

Again there was a silence, and again that expression of bewilderment, almost amounting to idiocy, reigned in the faces of the husband and wife.

“I never thought old Abraham White should have made the will he did,” said Henry, articulating with difficulty.  “Susy had just as much right to the property, and there she was cut off with five hundred dollars, to be paid when she came of age.”

“I guess she spent that five hundred on her wedding fix,” said Sylvia.

“It was a queer will,” stammered Henry.

“I think the old man always looked at Abrahama as his son and heir,” said the lawyer.  “She was named for him, and his father before him, you know.  I always thought the poor old girl deserved the lion’s share for being saddled with such a name, anyhow.”

“It was a dreadful name, and she was such a beautiful girl and woman,” said Sylvia.  She already spoke of Abrahama in the past tense.  “I wonder where the niece is,” she added.

“The last I heard of her she was living with some rich people in New York,” replied Meeks.  “I think they took her in some capacity after her father and mother died.”

“I hope she didn’t go out to work as hired girl,” said Sylvia.  “It would have been awful for a granddaughter of Abraham White’s to do that.  I wonder if Abrahama never wrote to her, nor did anything for her.”

“I don’t think she ever had the slightest communication with Susy after she married, or her husband, or the daughter,” replied Meeks.  “In fact, I practically know she did not.”