"Worse and better," he replied, smiling cynically. Then suddenly he
announced: "I've made my will."
"Why--why--" she stammered.
"Why?" sharply. "Because I'm going to die."
She said nothing. He smiled and continued:
"I've got it all fixed. Harry was in a tight place--gambling as
usual--and I gave him a lump sum in lieu of all claims. Then I gave John
Taylor--you needn't look. I sent for him. He's a damned scoundrel; but
he won't lie, and I needed him. I willed his children all the rest
except two or three legacies. One was one hundred thousand dollars for
you--"
"Oh, father!" she cried. "I don't deserve it."
"I reckon two years with Harry was worth about that much," he returned
grimly. "Then there's another gift of two hundred thousand dollars and
this house and plantation. Whom do you think that's for?"
"Helen?"
"Helen!" he raised his hand in threatening anger. "I might rot here for
all she cares. No--no--but then--I'll not tell you--I--ah--" A spasm of
pain shot across his face, and he lay back white and still. Abruptly he
sat up again and peered down the oaks. "Hush!" he gasped. "Who's that?"
"I don't know--it's a girl--I--"
He gripped her till she winced.
"My God--it walks--like my wife--I tell you--she held her head so--who
is it?" He half rose.
"Oh, father, it's nobody but Emma--little Emma--Bertie's child--the
mulatto girl.
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