“I am—or was,” said the gentleman, clearing his throat and sitting down again, but still addressing himself directly to Ruth, “Mr. Peter Stower’s attorney and confidant in business—if he could be said to be confidential with anybody. Mr. Stower was a very secretive man, young lady.” Aunt Sarah pursed her lips and tossed her head, as though mentally saying: “You can’t tell me anything about _that_.” Ruth said: “I have heard he was peculiar, sir. But I do not remember of ever seeing him.” “You did see him, however,” said Mr. Howbridge. “That was when you were a very little girl. If I am not mistaken, it was when this lady,” and he bowed to the silent, knitting figure in the rocking-chair, “who is known as your Aunt Sarah, came to live with your mother and father.” “Possibly,” said Ruth, hastily. “I do not know.” “It was one of few events of his life, connected in any way with his relatives, of which Mr. Stower spoke to me,” Mr. Howbridge said. “This lady expressed a wish to live with your mother, and your Uncle Peter brought her. I believe he never contributed to her support?” he added, slowly. Aunt Sarah might have been a graven image, as far as expressing herself upon _this_ point went. Her needles merely flashed in the sunlight. Ruth felt troubled and somewhat diffident in speaking of the matter. “I do not think either father or mother ever minded _that_,” she said. “Ah?” returned Mr. Howbridge. “And your mother has been dead how long, my dear?” Ruth told him, and he nodded. “Your income was not increased by her death? There was no insurance?” “Oh, no, sir.” He looked at her for a moment with some embarrassment, and cleared his throat again before asking his next question. “Do you realize, my dear, that you and your sisters are the only living, and direct, relatives of Mr. Peter Stower?” Ruth stared at him. She felt that her throat was dry, and she could not bring her tongue into play. She merely shook her head slowly. “Through your mother, my dear, you and your sisters will inherit your Great Uncle Peter’s property. It is considerable. With the old Corner House and the tenement property in Milton, bonds and cash in bank, it amounts to—approximately—a hundred thousand dollars.” “But—but——Aunt Sarah!” gasped Ruth, in surprise. “Ahem! your Aunt Sarah was really no relative of the deceased.” Here Aunt Sarah spoke up for the first time, her knitting needles clicking. “I thank goodness I was not,” she said. “My father was a Maltby, but Mr. Stower, Peter’s father, always wished me to be called by his name. He always told my mother he should provide for me. I have, therefore, looked to the Stower family for my support. It was and is my right.” She tossed her head and pursed her lips again.