Yet it was immediately to develop that in a deceased state, he had a financial standing which had been denied him in the flesh. For, with that desire to do justice speedily which ever marks the legal profession, a claim agent of the railroad got hold of the widow before any other lawyer could reach her and hurried her to his office and there showed her five hundred dollars in shiny new bills, which was more money that she thought there was in the world. With one eager hand she reached for this incredible fortune and with the other, using haste lest the beneficent white gentleman should recover from his impulses of generosity, she signed on the dotted line _A_ of the quit claim. Another colored woman who had come with her to witness this triumph and who was standing behind her, perfectly pop-eyed with envy and admiration, said: “Clarissa, whut you reckin you goin’ do now, sence you had all dis luck?” Before the widow answered she lifted a rustling twenty from off the top of the delectable heap and fanned herself with it and inhaled its fragrance; and then she said: “I don’t know ez I shall do anything—fur a spell. I got to wait till time is healed my wounds an’ I’s spent dis yere money. Of co’se in the yeahs to come I may marry ag’in an’ then ag’in I may not—who kin tell? But, gal, I tells you right now, ef ever I does marry ag’in my second husband is suttinly goin’ be a railroad man.” § 107 Bumpy Times for the Late Lamented The late Mr. Donovan had had a very close call from being a dwarf. Indeed, there are dwarfs in circuses not many inches shorter than he was. Despite his diminutive bulk and the handicap of lack of height he nevertheless had succeeded in the contracting business and when he died he left a tidy estate and his widow mourned him properly. On the day before the funeral, having finished the preparations for the wake, she sat in the parlor of her home when Mr. McKenna, an old friend of the family, was announced. Dressed in his Sunday best Mr. McKenna entered and having shaken Mrs. Donovan’s hand stated that he would be unable to attend the ceremonies that evening owing to other engagements. He asked, therefore, if he might be permitted to take a last look at the deceased. “Help yourself,” said the widow. “He’s laid out upstairs in the front room. Just you walk up, Mr. McKenna.” So Mr. McKenna walked up. After the lapse of a few minutes he tip-toed down again, wiping away his tears. The widow removed the handkerchief from her eyes. “Did you think to close the hall door as you came down, Mr. McKenna?” she asked. “I think so, madam,” he said. “I was so overcome wit’ me grief I didn’t take much note. I think so, but I won’t be sure.” “Would you make sure, thin,” she said. “It’s twice to-day already the cat’s had him downstairs.” § 108 The Genesis of an Old Favorite