"Ay, this is it," said the major, selecting one of them. "See, here's the superscription: 'Will of Mistress Ann Atkinson.' And that is my own will," he added, nodding to the other. "See, Charley: you'll know where to find it in case of need. Not that any of you would be much the better for it, my lad, as things are at present. They will be different with us when Eagles' Nest falls in." Frank had taken the packet from the major's hand, and was looking at the seal: a large red seal, with an imposing impression. "I suppose you would not like to open this will, uncle? Would it be wrong to do so?" The major shook his head, slowly but decisively. "I can't open it, Frank. Although I know its contents--at least, I knew them once--to open it would seem like a breach of confidence. Your aunt Ann sealed the will herself in my presence, after I had read it. 'Don't let it be opened until my death,' she said, as she handed it to me. And so, you see, I should not like to do it." "Of course not," readily spoke Frank. "I could not wish you to do so. Perhaps, uncle, you will, as you say, recollect more when you have slept upon it." "Ay, perhaps so. I have an idea, mind you, Frank, that it was a very good slice; a substantial sum." "What should you call substantial?" asked Frank. "Two or three thousand pounds." "I do hope it was!" returned Frank, his face beaming. "I could move the world with that." But the major did not return the smile. Sundry experiences of his own were obtruding themselves on his memory. "We are all apt to think so, my boy. But no one knows, until they try it, how quickly a sum of ready-money melts. Whilst you are saying I'll do this with it, or I'll do that--hey, presto! it is gone. And you sit looking blankly at your empty hands, and wonder what you've spent it in." Taking the drawer, with the two wills in it, he put it back in its place, locking it and the bureau safely as before. And then he went up to bed to "sleep upon it," and try and get back his recollection as to an item that one of those wills contained. Morning came. One of the same hot and glorious days that the last few had been: and the window was thrown open to the sun. It shone on the breakfast-table. The children, in their somewhat dilapidated attire, but with fresh, fair, healthy faces and happy tempers, sat round it, eating piles of bread-and-butter, and eggs ad libitum. Mrs. Raynor, in the faded muslin gown that she had worn the day before, presided over a dish of broiled ham, whilst Alice poured out the coffee. It seemed natural to Mrs. Raynor that she should take the part, no matter at what, that gave her the least trouble: kind, loving, gentle, she always was, but very incapable.