“Stop! stop!” cried Charlton. “Give me a minute to consider. Three hundred dollars will more than cover all the expenses,—medical attendance, undertaker’s charges,—all. At least, I know an undertaker who charges less than half what such fellows as Brown of Grace pile on. Say three hundred dollars.” With a smile of indescribable scorn, the invalid touched the bell. “Stop! We’ll call it five hundred,” groaned the conveyancer. A louder ring by the lady, and the old negro’s step was heard on the stairs. “Seven hundred,—eight hundred: O, I couldn’t possibly afford more than eight hundred!” said Charlton, in a tone the pathos of which was no longer feigned. The invalid now rang the bell with energy. “It shall be a thousand, then!” exclaimed Charlton, just as Toussaint entered the room. “Toussaint,” said the invalid, “Mr. Charlton has a paper he wishes me to sign. I have promised to do it on his paying you a thousand dollars. Accept it without demur. Do you understand?” Toussaint bowed his assent; and Charlton, leaving the room, returned with his three witnesses. The sum stipulated was paid to Toussaint, and the will was duly signed and witnessed. Possessed of the document, Charlton’s first impulse was to vent his wrath upon his wife; but he discreetly remembered that, while life remained, it was in her power to revoke what she had done; so he dismissed his witnesses, and began to play the fawner once more. But he was checked abruptly. “There! you weary me. Go, if you please,” said she. “If I have occasion, I will send for you.” “May I not call daily to see how you are getting on?” whined Charlton. “I really don’t see any use in it,” replied the invalid. “If you will look in the newspapers under the obituary head the eleventh or twelfth of next month, you will probably get all the information in regard to me that will be important.” “Cruel and unjust!” said the husband. “Have you no forgiveness in your heart?” “Forgiveness? Trampled on, my heart has given out love and duty in the hope of finding some spot in your own heart which avarice and self-seeking had not yet petrified. But I despair of doing aught to change your nature. I must leave you to God and circumstance. Neither you nor any other offender shall lack my forgiveness, however; for in that I only give what I supremely need. Farewell.” “Good by, since you will not let me try to make amends for the past,” said Charlton; and he quitted the room. Half sorry for her own harshness, and thinking she might have misjudged her husband’s present feelings, the invalid got Toussaint to help her into the next room, where she could look through the blinds. No sooner was Charlton in the street than he drew from his pocket the will, and walked slowly on as if feasting his eyes on its contents. With a gesture of exultation, he finally returned the paper to his pocket, and strode briskly up the street to Broadway.