“Bear up, my Aleck, all is not lost! You really never invested a penny of my uncle's bequest, but only its unmaterialized future; what we have lost was only the incremented harvest from that future by your incomparable financial judgment and sagacity. Cheer up, banish these griefs; we still have the thirty thousand untouched; and with the experience which you have acquired, think what you will be able to do with it in a couple years! The marriages are not off, they are only postponed.” These were blessed words. Aleck saw how true they were, and their influence was electric; her tears ceased to flow, and her great spirit rose to its full stature again. With flashing eye and grateful heart, and with hand uplifted in pledge and prophecy, she said: “Now and here I proclaim--” But she was interrupted by a visitor. It was the editor and proprietor of the _Sagamore_. He had happened into Lakeside to pay a duty-call upon an obscure grandmother of his who was nearing the end of her pilgrimage, and with the idea of combining business with grief he had looked up the Fosters, who had been so absorbed in other things for the past four years that they neglected to pay up their subscription. Six dollars due. No visitor could have been more welcome. He would know all about Uncle Tilbury and what his chances might be getting to be, cemeterywards. They could, of course, ask no questions, for that would squelch the bequest, but they could nibble around on the edge of the subject and hope for results. The scheme did not work. The obtuse editor did not know he was being nibbled at; but at last, chance accomplished what art had failed in. In illustration of something under discussion which required the help of metaphor, the editor said: “Land, it's as tough as Tilbury Foster!--as _we_ say.” It was sudden, and it made the Fosters jump. The editor noticed, and said, apologetically: “No harm intended, I assure you. It's just a saying; just a joke, you know--nothing in it. Relation of yours?” Sally crowded his burning eagerness down, and answered with all the indifference he could assume: “I--well, not that I know of, but we've heard of him.” The editor was thankful, and resumed his composure. Sally added: “Is he--is he--well?” “Is he _well_? Why, bless you he's in Sheol these five years!” The Fosters were trembling with grief, though it felt like joy. Sally said, non-committally--and tentatively: “Ah, well, such is life, and none can escape--not even the rich are spared.” The editor laughed. “If you are including Tilbury,” said he, “it don't apply. _He_ hadn't a cent; the town had to bury him.” The Fosters sat petrified for two minutes; petrified and cold. Then, white-faced and weak-voiced, Sally asked: “Is it true? Do you _know _it to be true?”