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, which 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[1] his pen, spread out his paper, and prepared to write. [1] In Irving’s time, quills were made into pens by pointing or “nibbing” their ends. “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. “I wish him joy that inherits it!” said the little lawyer, chuckling and rubbing his hands involuntarily. “What do you mean?” said Wolfert, again opening his eyes. “That he’ll be one of the richest men in the place,” cried little Rollebuck. The expiring Wolfert seemed to step back from the threshold of existence; his eyes again lighted up; he raised himself in his bed, shoved back his red worsted nightcap, and stared broadly at the lawyer. “You don’t say so!” exclaimed he. “Faith but I do!” rejoined the other. “Why, when that great field and that huge meadow come to be laid out in streets and cut up into snug building lots,—why, whoever owns it need not pull off his hat to the patroon!” “Say you so?” cried Wolfert, half thrusting one leg out of bed; “why, then, I think I’ll not make my will yet.” To the surprise of everybody the dying man actually recovered. The vital spark, which had glimmered faintly in the socket, received fresh fuel from the oil of gladness which the little lawyer poured into his soul. It once more burned up into a flame.