But this was not for long.  The thought of her own selfish interests came back, and in the midst of her apparent grief the question forced itself upon her consideration, “Did my husband make a will?”

Of course, she did not give utterance to this query.  She knew what was expected of her, and she was prudent enough to keep up appearances before the neighbors, who poured into the house to offer their sympathy.  She received them with her cambric handkerchief pressed to her eyes, from which, by dint of effort, she succeeded in squeezing a few formal tears, and, while her bosom appeared to heave with emotion, she was mentally calculating how much Colonel Preston had probably left.

“Shan’t I stay with you, my dear Mrs. Preston?” said worthy Mrs. Cameron, in a tone full of warm interest and sympathy.

“Thank you,” said Mrs. Preston, in a low voice; “you are very kind, but I would rather be left alone.”

“But it must be so sad for you to be alone in your sorrow,” said her neighbor.

“No.  I can bear sorrow better alone,” said the newly made widow.  “Perhaps I am peculiar, but I would prefer it.”

“If you really wish it,” said the other, reluctantly.

“Yes, I wish it.  Thank you for your kind offer, but I know my own feelings, and the presence of others would only increase my pain.”

This was what she said to others who made the same offer.  It did not excite great surprise, for Mrs. Preston had never leaned upon anyone for sympathy, nor was she ready with her sympathy when others were in trouble.  She was self-poised and self-contained, and, in fact, for this reason was not popular with her neighbors.  Still, in this her distress they were ready to forget all this and extend the same cordial sympathy which they would have done in other cases.  There was but one person whose company she did crave at this time and this was her son, Godfrey.  So, when Alfred Turner offered to go for him the next morning, she accepted his offer with thanks.

At last she was left alone.  The servant had gone to bed, and there was no one but herself and her dead husband in the lower part of the house.  She no longer sat with her handkerchief pressed before her eyes.  Her face wore its usual look of calm composure.  She was busily thinking, not of her husband’s fate, but of her own future.

“Did he leave a will?  And, if so, how much did he leave me?” she thought.

If there was a will, it was probably in the house, and Mrs. Preston determined to find it, if possible.

“Of course, all ought to come to me and Godfrey,” she soliloquized.  “I don’t think it is right to leave money to charitable institutions as long as a wife and child are living.  Fortunately, my husband had no brothers or sisters, or perhaps he would have divided the property.  If there is no will, I shall have my thirds, and shall have the control of Godfrey’s property till he comes