Mrs. Transom collapsed.
"Give me the candle," 'Lizabeth commanded. "Look here--"
She held the corner of the will to the flame, and watched it run up at
the edge and wrap the whole in fire. The paper dropped from her hand to
the bare boards, and with a dying flicker was consumed. The charred
flakes drifted idly across the floor, stopped, and drifted again.
In dead silence she looked up.
Mrs. Transom's watery eyes were open to their fullest. 'Lizabeth turned
to William and found him regarding her with a curious frown.
"Do you know what you've done?" he asked hoarsely.
'Lizabeth laughed a trifle wildly.
"I reckon I've made reparation."
"There was no call--" began William.
"You fool--'twas to _myself!_ An' now," she added quietly, "I'll pick
up my things and tramp down to Hooper's Farm; they'll give me a place, I
know, an' be glad o' the chance. They'll be sittin' up to-night, bein'
Christmas time. Good-night, William!"
She moved to go; but, recollecting herself, turned at the door, and,
stepping up to the bed, bent and kissed the dead man's forehead.
Then she was gone.
It was the woman who broke the silence that followed with a base speech.
"Well! To think she'd lose her head like that when she found you wasn't
to be had!"
"Shut up!" said William savagely; "an' listen to this: If you was to
die to-night I'd marry 'Lizabeth next week.
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