It was two days after the funeral. Sing had set things to rights in the old parlor; Tony brought in a bunch of flowers; and Job, leaving Bess saddled by the fence, came in and went up to his little room. They were coming to hear the will read. They would be here soon, the lawyer and the relatives and the preacher--for it was announced that the old man had left a snug sum to the church. Sing and Tony and Hans, arrayed in their best, waited for those who were coming. At last they came--the preacher on horseback, in his long coat; Marshall Dean and his wife, in their best attire, followed by the nine young Deans of all ages. And back of all was Dan, in his neat black suit, looking paler and more frail than ever. Into the prim little parlor they all filed, and sat down awkwardly in a line around the room. The preacher remarked upon the weather, Mr. Dean said it was an uncommon warm summer, Mrs. Dean sent Tommy to get her a newspaper to use as a fan. Just then a horse and cart drove up, and all looked out. It was Aunty Perkins. Why she had come, she knew not, except that Job had sent for her. She trotted in, and, with a little curtsey, said, "How do? Hot in sun. All well?" Next came Tim's father, in a new brown suit and a red tie that matched his hair. Last of all, Tom Reed looked in sheepishly, and seated himself outside the door. All sat in embarrassed silence, which grew painful as the moments went on. Where was the lawyer, and where was Job? Finally they came--the attorney through the gate and up the path at a brisk pace. Then, dressed in a neat black suit, with black tie and black hat in hand, and looking for all the world as he had years before when he came in on the stage, only older grown, Job came down the stairs and, with a kind welcome, seated himself near the door. The lawyer adjusted his spectacles and broke the seal of the document in his hand. Hans and Sing and Tony stood in the open door, a picturesque group in the afternoon sunlight. The lawyer rose, looked about, and cleared his throat. The anxious spectators leaned over, breathless. It had come at last! Only a second between them and some substantial remembrance from Andrew Malden. The will was in the usual form, but it was brief. Slowly, almost haltingly, he read, so that the words fell clearly on each ear. This is what they heard: "In the name of God, Amen. I, Andrew Malden, a native of Massachusetts, a resident of Grizzly county, State of California, being in clear mind and usual health, do hereby make my last will and testament. I hereby bequeath all my property, real and personal, those lands and buildings and appurtenances thereof situated in the county of Grizzly, all bonds and moneys deposited in the Gold City Bank, to Job Teale, who for many years has lived under my roof and been a son to me. All things that by the grace of God I own, I bequeath to him and his heirs and assigns forever.