That was the superscription in Isom's writing, correctly spelled, correctly punctuated, after his precise way in all business affairs. "Who is John B. Little?" asked Ollie, her heart seeming to grow small, shrinking from some undefined dread. "He's Judge Little, of the county court now," said Sol. "I'll go over after him, if you say so." "After breakfast will do," said Ollie. She put the envelope on the shelf beside the clock, as if it did not concern her greatly. Yet, under her placid surface she was deeply moved. What need had Isom for making a will? "It saves a lot of lawin' and wastin' money on costs," said Sol, as if reading her mind and making answer to her thought. "You'll have a right smart of property on your hands to look after for a young girl like you." Of course, to her. Who else was there for him to will his property to? A right smart, indeed. Sol's words were wise; they quieted her sudden, sharp pain of fear. Judge Little lived less than a mile away. Before nine o'clock he was there, his black coat down to his knees, for he was a short man and bowed of the legs, his long ends of hair combed over his bald crown. The judge was at that state of shrinkage when the veins can be counted in the hands of a thin man of his kind. His smoothly shaved face was purple from congestion, the bald place on his small head was red. He was a man who walked about as if wrapped in meditation, and on him rested a notarial air. His arms were almost as long as his legs, his hands were extremely large, lending the impression that they had belonged originally to another and larger man, and that Judge Little must have become possessed of them by some process of delinquency against a debtor. As he walked along his way those immense hands hovered near the skirts of his long coat, the fingers bent, as if to lay hold of that impressive garment and part it. This, together with the judge's meditative appearance, lent him the aspect of always being on the point of sitting down. "Well, well," said he, sliding his spectacles down his nose to get the reading focus, advancing the sealed envelope, drawing it away again, "so Isom left a will? Not surprising, not surprising. Isom was a careful man, a man of business. I suppose we might as well proceed to open the document?" The judge was sitting with his thin legs crossed. They hung as close and limp as empty trousers. Around the room he roved his eyes, red, watery, plagued by dust and wind. Greening was there, and his wife. The daughter-in-law had gone home to get ready for the funeral. The other two neighbor women reposed easily on the kitchen chairs, arms tightly folded, backs against the wall. "You, Mrs. Chase, being the only living person who is likely to have an interest in the will as legatee, are fully aware of the circumstances under which it was found, and so forth and so forth?" Ollie nodded. There was something in her throat, dry and impeding. She felt that she could not speak.