“The little gun, it seems, has given out, and now it’s time for the cannon,” came heaving up from the deep chest of the enraged Judge, and snatching from his private drawer a roll of paper, he strode into the drawing-room, and confronting the astonished Mr. Thornton, began: “Well, Bobum, are you through? If so, you’d better be travelling if you don’t want the print of my foot on your fine broadcloth coat,” and he raised his heavy calfskin threateningly. “I heard you,” he continued, as he saw Mr. Thornton about to speak. “I heard all about it. You don’t want Mildred to marry Lawrence, and not satisfied with working upon her most unaccountable love for that little soft, putty-head dough-bake, you tell her that she ain’t good enough for a Thornton, and bid her marry somebody who will be satisfied with the few thousands I shall probably give her. Thunder and Mars, Bob Thornton, what do you take me to be? Just look here, will you? Then tell me what you think about the few thousands,” and he unrolled what was unquestionably the “Last Will and Testament of Jacob Howell.” “You won’t look, hey,” he continued. “Listen, then. But first, how much do you imagine I’m worth? What do men in Boston say of old Howell when they want his name? Don’t they rate him at half a million, and ain’t every red of that willed on black and white to Mildred, the child of my adoption, except indeed ten thousand given to Oliver Hawkins, because I knew Gipsy’d raise a fuss if it wasn’t, and twenty thousand more donated to some blasted Missionary societies, not because I believe in’t, but because I thought maybe ’twould atone for my swearing once in a while, and sitting on the piazza so many Sundays in my easy-chair, instead of sliding down hill all day on those confounded hard cushions and high seats down at St. Luke’s. The Apostle himself couldn’t sit on ’em an hour without getting mighty fidgety. But that’s nothing to do with my will. Just listen,” and he read: “I give, bequeath and devise,—and so forth,” while Mr. Thornton’s face turned black, red, and white alternately. He had no idea that the little bundle of muslin and lace now trembling so violently upon the sofa had so large a share of Judge Howell’s heart and will, or he might have acted differently, for the Judge’s money was as valuable as Lilian Veille’s, and though Mildred’s family might be a trifle exceptionable, four hundred thousand dollars, or thereabouts, would cover a multitude of sins. But it was now too late to retract. The Judge would see his motive at once, and resolving to brave the storm he had raised, he affected to answer with a sneer: “Money will not make amends for everything. I think quite as much of family as of wealth.”