"Miss Simpson," Horatio said. "Expect you don't remember Josephine Simpson--she was the young woman who was in the office when I had the coffee business." "That woman!" Milly gasped, remembering vividly now the sour, keen scrutiny the bookkeeper had given her the last time she had been in the office of the tea and coffee business. It must have been Miss Simpson who had stood a little to one side behind her father at the funeral. The thin-faced woman had a familiar look, but in her best clothes Milly had not recognized her. Horatio resented the tone of his daughter's exclamation. "Let me tell you, Milly," he asserted with dignity, "there are few better women living on this earth than 'that woman.' She's looked after a sick mother and a younger sister all her life, and now I mean she shall have somebody look after her." The little man rose an inch bodily with his intention. "I think it's very nice of you, papa." "Nice of me! An old hulks like me?... I guess it's nice of her to let me.... We'll make out all right. Will you come to the wedding?" he concluded with a laugh. "Of course--and I'm so glad for you, really glad, papa. I hope Josephine'll make you very happy." And she kissed her father. On her way back to the city Milly laughed aloud several times with amusement mingled with relief. "Who would have thought it--and with such a scarecrow!" She stopped at the _Star_ to tell Jack the news. They had lunch together and laughed again and again at "love's young dream." "He won't be lonely now!" Milly said. "I suppose he had to have some woman attached to him," her husband mused; "when a man has reached his age and has had 'em about always--" "Well, I like that!" Milly pouted. "Anyway, that let's us out," was the final comment of both upon the approaching nuptials of Horatio. It was not the only surprise that the little old lady's death provided the young couple with. It was discovered that she had made a will, and, what was still more wonderful, that she had really something to will! Various savings-bank books were found neatly tied up with string in her drawer below a pile of handkerchiefs. The will said, after duly providing for the care of her grave, "To my beloved granddaughter, I give and bequeath the residue of my estate," which upon examination of the bank-books was found to be rather more than three thousand dollars all told. "To me!!" Milly almost shouted when her father read the slip of paper to her. She was divided in her astonishment between surprise that there should be any money left, and that the little old lady, who had fought her all her life, should give it all to "her beloved granddaughter." Bragdon could not appreciate the full irony of the situation. "And why not to you?" he asked.