Dirk Waldron was the only being that seemed to shed a ray of sunshine into this house of mourning. He came in with cheery look and manly spirit, and tried to reanimate the expiring heart of the poor money-digger, but it was all in vain. Wolfert was completely done over. If any thing was wanting to complete his despair, it was a notice served upon him in the midst of his distress, that the corporation were about to run a new street through the very centre of his cabbage garden. He saw nothing before him but poverty and ruin; his last reliance, the garden of his forefathers, was to be laid waste, and what then was to become of his poor wife and child? His eyes filled with tears as they followed the dutiful Amy out of the room one morning. Dirk Waldron was seated beside him; Wolfert grasped his hand, pointed after his daughter, and for the first time since his illness broke the silence he had maintained. “I am going!” said he, shaking his head feebly, “and when I am gone—my poordaughter—” “Leave her to me, father!” said Dirk, manfully—“I’ll take care of her!” Wolfert looked up in the face of the cheery, strapping youngster, and saw there was none better able to take care of a woman. “Enough,” said he, “she is yours!—and now fetch me a lawyer—let me make my will and die.” The lawyer was brought—a dapper, bustling, round-headed little man, Roorback (or Rollebuck, as it was pronounced) by name. At the sight of him the women broke into loud lamentations, for they looked upon the signing of a will as the signing of a death-warrant. Wolfert made a feeble motion for them to be silent. Poor Amy buried her face and her grief in the bed-curtain. Dame Webber resumed her knitting to hide her distress, which betrayed itself, however, in a pellucid tear, that trickled silently down and hung at the end of her peaked nose; while the cat, the only unconcerned member of the family, played with the good dame’s ball of worsted, as it rolled about the floor. Wolfert lay on his back, his nightcap drawn over his forehead; his eyes closed; his whole visage the picture of death. He begged the lawyer to be brief, for he felt his end approaching, and that he had no time to lose. The lawyer nibbed his pen, spread out his paper, and prepared to write. “I give and bequeath,” said Wolfert, faintly, “my small farm—” “What—all!” exclaimed the lawyer. Wolfert half opened his eyes and looked upon the lawyer. “Yes—all” said he. “What! all that great patch of land with cabbages and sunflowers, which the corporation is just going to run a main street through?” “The same,” said Wolfert, with a heavy sigh and sinking back upon his pillow.