the company, and Richard had said
he'd go in if papa did that, and he couldn't break his word----"

"I know," said Laura, sighing. "I know."

"Laura"--Cora spoke with sudden gravity--"did you ever know
anybody like me? I'm almost getting superstitious about it,
because it seems to me I _always_ get just what I set out to get.
I believe I could have anything in the world if I tried for it."

"I hope so, if you tried for something good for you," said Laura
sadly. "Cora, dear, you will--you will be a little easy on
Hedrick, won't you?"

Cora leaned against the newel and laughed till she was exhausted.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Mr. Trumble's offices were heralded by a neat blazon upon the
principal door, "Wade J. Trumble, Mortgages and Loans"; and the
gentleman thus comfortably, proclaimed, emerging from that door
upon a September noontide, burlesqued a start of surprise at sight
of a figure unlocking an opposite door which exhibited the name,
"Ray Vilas," and below it, the cryptic phrase, "Probate Law."

"Water!" murmured Mr. Trumble, affecting to faint. "You ain't
going in _there_, are you, Ray?" He followed the other into the
office, and stood leaning against a bookcase, with his hands in
his pockets, while Vilas raised the two windows, which were
obscured by a film of smoke-deposit: there was a thin coat of fine
sifted dust over everything. "Better not sit down, Ray," continued
Trumble, warningly. "You'll spoil your clothes and you might get a
client. That word `Probate' on the door ain't going to keep 'em
out forever. You recognize the old place, I s'pose? You must have
been here at least twice since you moved in. What's the matter?
Dick Lindley hasn't missionaried you into any idea of _working_,
has he? Oh, no, _I_ see: the Richfield Hotel bar has
closed--you've managed to drink it all at last!"

"Have you heard how old man Madison is to-day?" asked Ray, dusting
his fingers with a handkerchief.

"Somebody told me yesterday he was about the same. He's not going
to get well."

"How do you know?" Ray spoke quickly.

"Stroke too severe. People never recover----"

"Oh, yes, they do, too."

Trumble began hotly: "I beg to dif----" but checked himself,
manifesting a slight confusion. "That is, I know they don't. Old
Madison may live a while, if you call that getting well; but he'll
never be the same man he was. Doctor Sloane says it was a bad
stroke. Says it was `induced by heat prostration and excitement.'
`