r mercy sakes fasten
those last three hooks; I'm almost distracted with 'em."

But the hooks remained unfastened for the time. Captain Dan threw
himself into a chair and waved the letter.

"Serena," he cried, puffing like a stranded porpoise, "what--WHAT do you
suppose has happened? Aunt Laviny is dead."

Serena turned. "Dead!" she repeated. "Your Aunt Lavinia Dott? The rich
one?"

"Yes, sir; she's gone. Died in Italy a fortnight ago. Naples, I think
'twas--or some such outlandish place; you know she's done nothin' but
cruise around Europe ever since Uncle Jim died. The letter says she was
taken sick on a Friday, and died Sunday, so 'twas pretty sudden. I--"

But Mrs. Dott interrupted. "What else does it say?" she asked excitedly.
"What else does that letter say? Who is if from?"

"It's from her lawyers up to Boston. What made you think it said
anything else?"

"Because I'm not blind and I can see your face, Daniel Dott. What else
does it say? Tell me! Has she--did she--?"

Captain Dan nodded solemnly. "She didn't forget us," he said. "She
didn't forget us, Serena. The letter says her will gives us that solid
silver teapot and sugar-bowl that was presented to Uncle Jim by the Ship
Chandlers' Society, when he was president of it. She willed that to us.
She knew I always admired that tea-pot and--"

His wife interrupted once more.

"Tea-pot!" she repeated strongly. "Tea-pot! What are you talking about?
Do you mean to say that all she left us was a TEA-POT? If you do I--"

"No, no, Serena. Hush! She's left us three thousand dollars besides.
Think of it! Three thousand dollars--just now!"

His voice shook as he said it. He spoke as if three thousand dollars was
an unheard-of sum, a fortune. Mrs. Dott had no such illusion. She sat
down upon the edge of the bed.

"Three thousand dollars!" she exclaimed. "Is that all? Three thousand
dollars!"

"All! My soul, Serena! Why, ONE thousand dollars just now is like--"

"Hush! Do be still! Three thousand dollars! And she worth a hundred
thousand, if she was worth a cent. A lone woman, without a chick or
a child or a relation except you, and that precious young swell of a
cousin of hers she thought so much of. I suppose he gets the rest of it.
Oh, how can anybody be so stingy!"

"Sh-sh, sh-h, Serena. Don't speak so of the dead. Why, we ought to be
mournin' for her, really, instead of rejoicing over what she left us.
It ain't right to talk so. I'm ashamed of myself--