er; "he said--he said somethin' or other; I guess
I've forgot what 'twas."

"I guess you ain't. WHAT did he say?"

"Well, he said--he said Serena--Mrs. Dott, I mean--was probably
gallivantin' down to the lodge room by this time. Said 'twa'n't no use
tryin' to get her to attend to common things or common folks nowadays;
she was too busy tryin' to keep up with Annette Black."

This literal quotation from the frank Mr. Calvin caused a sensation.
Captain Dan struggled to find words. His daughter laid a hand on his
sleeve.

"Never mind, Dad," she said, soothingly. "You know what Abel Calvin is;
you don't mind what he says. Sam, you shouldn't repeat such nonsense.
Run away now and attend to your work. I'm sure there's enough for you to
do."

"You--you go and clean up the cellar," ordered the irate captain. Sam
departed cellarward, muttering that it wasn't his fault; HE hadn't said
nothin'. Gertrude spoke again.

"Don't mind that, Dad," she urged. "Why, how warm you are, and how
excited you look. What is it? You haven't spoken a word to John."

Her father shook his head. "Mornin', John," he said. "I beg your pardon.
I ain't responsible to-day, I shouldn't wonder. I--I've had some news
that's drivin' everything else out of my mind."

"News? Why, Dad! what do you mean? Bad news?"

"No, no! Good as ever was, and.... Humph! no, I don't mean that. It is
bad news, of course. Your Great-aunt Laviny's dead, Gertie."

He told of the lawyer's letter, omitting for the present the news of the
legacy. Gertrude was interested, but not greatly shocked or grieved. She
had met her great-aunt but once during her lifetime, and her memory of
the deceased was of a stately female, whose earrings and brooches and
rings sparkled as if she was on fire in several places; who sat bolt
upright at the further end of a hotel room in Boston, and ordered
Captain Dan not to bring "that child" any nearer until its hands were
washed. As she had been the child and had distinctly disagreeable
recollections of the said hands having been washed three times before
admittance to the presence, the memory was not too pleasant. She said
she was sorry to hear that Aunt Lavinia was no more, and asked when it
happened. Her father told what he knew of the circumstances attending
the bereavement, which was not much.

"She's gone, anyhow," he said. "It's liable to happen to any of us,
bein' cut off that way. We ought to be prepared, I suppose."

"I suppose so.