“I wish a full inquiry might be made, to ascertain if there be no will;” put in the minister, anxiously.

“I’m quite willing so to do,” returned Mr. Job, whose confidence and moral courage increased each instant.  “Quite willing; and am rather anxious for it, if I could only see where to go to inquire.”

“Does no one present know of any will made by the deceased?” demanded Minister Whittle, authoritatively.

A dead silence succeeded to the question.  Eye met eye, and there was great disappointment among the numerous collaterals present, including all those who did not come in as next of kin, or as their direct representatives.  But the Rev. Mr. Whittle had been too long and too keenly on the scent of a legacy, to be thrown out of the hunt, just as he believed the game was coming in sight.

“It might be well to question each near relative directly,” he added.  “Mr. Job Pratt, do you know nothing of any will?”

“Nothing whatever.  At one time I did think the deacon meant to make his testament; but I conclude that he must have changed his mind.”

“And you, Mrs. Thomas,” turning to the sister—­“as next of kin, I make the same inquiry of you!”

“I once talked with brother about it,” answered this relative, who was working away in a rocking-chair as if she thought the earth might stop in its orbit, if she herself ceased to keep in motion; “but he gave me no satisfactory answer—­that is, nothin’ that I call satisfactory.  Had he told me he had made a will, and given me a full shear (share), I should have been content; or, had he told me that he had not made a will, and that the law would give me a full shear, I should have been content.  I look upon myself as a person easily satisfied.”

This was being explicit, and left little more to be obtained from the deacon’s beloved and only surviving sister.

“And you, Mary; do you know anything of a will made by your uncle?”

Mary shook her head; but there was no smile on her features, for the scene was unpleasant to her.

“Then no one present knows of any paper that the deacon left specially to be opened after his death?” demanded Rev. Mr. Whittle, putting the general question pretty much at random.

“A paper!” cried Mary, hastily.  “Yes, I know something of a paper—­I thought you spoke of a will.”

“A will is commonly written on paper, now-a-days, Miss Mary—­but, you have a paper?”

“Uncle gave me a paper, and told me to keep till Roswell Gardiner came back; and, if he himself should not then be living, to give it to him”—­The colour now mounted to the very temples of the pretty girl, and she seemed to speak with greater deliberation and care.  “As I was to give the paper to Roswell, I have always thought it related to him.  My uncle spoke of it to me as lately as the day of his death.”

“That’s the will, beyond a doubt!” cried Rev. Mr. Whittle; with more exultation than became his profession and professions—­“Do you not think this may be Deacon Pratt’s will, Miss Mary?”