“Yes,” he went on, recovering himself a little, “I am going to die in this horrible place, and all my money will not even give me a decent funeral. Addison and Roscoe will get it—confound them!—as though they had not got enough already. It makes me mad when I think of those Addison girls spending my money, or bribing Peers to marry them with it, or something of that sort. I disinherited my own nephew, Eustace, and kicked him out to sink or swim; and now I can’t undo it, and I would give anything to alter it! We quarrelled about you, Miss Smithers, because I would not give you any more money for that book of yours. I wish I had given it to you—anything you wanted. I didn’t treat you well; but, Miss Smithers, a bargain is a bargain. It would never have done to give way, on principle. You must understand that, Miss Smithers. Don’t revenge yourself on me about it, now that I am helpless, because, you see, it was a matter of principle.” “I am not in the habit of revenging myself, Mr. Meeson,” answered Augusta, with dignity; “but I think that you have done a very wicked thing to disinherit your nephew in that fashion, and I don’t wonder that you feel uncomfortable about it.” The expression of this vigorous opinion served to disturb Mr. Meeson’s conscience all the more, and he burst out into laments and regrets. “Well,” said Augusta at last, “if you don’t like your will you had better alter it. There are enough of us here to witness a will, and, if anything happens to you, it will override the other—will it not?” This was a new idea, and the dying man jumped at it. “Of course, of course,” he said; “I never thought of that before. I will do it at once, and cut Addison and Roscoe out altogether. Eustace shall have every farthing. I never thought of that before. Come, give me your hand; I’ll get up and see about it.” “Stop a minute,” said Augusta. “How are you going to write a will without pen or pencil, or paper or ink?” Mr. Meeson sank back with a groan. This difficulty had not occurred to him. “Are you sure nobody has got a pencil and a bit of paper?” he asked. “It would do, so long as the writing remained legible.” “I don’t think so,” said Augusta, “but I will inquire.” Accordingly she went and asked Bill and Johnnie: but neither of them had a pencil or a single scrap of paper, and she returned sadly to communicate the news. “I have got it, I have got it,” said Mr. Meeson, as she approached the spot where he lay upon the rock. “If there is no paper or pen, we must write it in blood upon some linen. We can make a pen from the feathers of a bird. I read somewhere in a book of somebody who did that. It will do as well as anything else.” Here was an idea, indeed, and one that Augusta jumped at. But in another moment her enthusiasm received a check. Where was there any linen to write on? “Yes,” she said, “if you can find some linen. You have got on a flannel shirt, so have the two sailors, and little Dick is dressed in flannel, too.”