what his life offered him for the
future, now that the last faint hope of winning Lois's love had died. Mr.
Denner's will had been read that morning in his dining-room, with only
Dr. Howe and Mary and Willie present, while the rain beat persistently
against the windows, and made the room so dark that Gifford had to call
for a candle, and hold the paper close to his eyes to see to read. Willie
had shivered, and looked steadfastly under the table, thinking, while his
little heart beat suffocatingly, that he was glad there were no prayers
after a will. When that was over, and Dr. Howe had carried Willie back
with him to be cheered and comforted at the rectory, Gifford had devoted
himself to disposing of such small effects as Mr. Denner had left as
personal bequests.

They were not very many. A certain bamboo rod with silver mountings and a
tarnished silver reel, were for Dr. Howe; and there were a few books to
be sent to Mr. Dale, and six bottles of Tokay, '52, for Colonel Drayton.
There was a mourning-ring, which had been Mr. Denner's father's, for a
distant cousin, who was further comforted by a few hundred dollars, but
all the rest was for Willie.

Gifford had felt, as he sat at Mr. Denner's writing-desk and touched some
small possessions, all the pathetic powerlessness of the dead. How Mr.
Denner had treasured his little valueless belongings! There was a pair of
silver shoe-buckles, wrapped in chamois skin, which the little gentleman
had faithfully kept bright and shining; they had belonged to his
grandfather, and Mr. Denner could remember when they had been worn, and
the knee-breeches, and the great bunch of seals at the fob. Perhaps, when
his little twinkling brown eyes looked at them, he felt again the thrill
of love and fear for the stately gentleman who had awed his boyhood.
There was a lock of faded gray hair in a yellow old envelope, on which
was written, in the lawyer's precise hand, "My mother's hair," and a date
which seemed to Gifford very far back. There were one or two relics of
the little sister: a small green morocco shoe, which had buttoned about
her ankle, and a pair of gold shoulder-straps, and a narrow pink ribbon
sash that had grown yellow on the outside fold.

There was a pile of neatly kept diaries, with faithful accounts of the
weather, and his fishing excursions, and the whist parties; scarcely more
than this, except a brief mention of a marriage or a death. Of course
there were letters; not