One afternoon while Selma’s gaze happened to be directed toward the embryo college walls, and she was incubating on the situation, Mr. Parsons, who had seemed to be dozing, suddenly said: 

“I should like you to write to Mr. Lyons, the lawyer, and ask him to come to see me.”

“I will write to-night.  You know he called while you were ill.”

“Yes, I thought him a clever fellow when we met two or three times on railroad matters, and I gather from what you told me about his speech at the political meeting that he’s a rising man hereabouts.  I’m going to make my will, and I need him to put it into proper shape.”

“I’m sure he’d do it correctly.”

“There’s not much for him to do except to make sure that the language is legal, for I’ve thought it all out while I’ve been lying here during these weeks.  Still, it’s important to have in a lawyer to fix it so the people whom I don’t intend to get my money shan’t be able to make out that I’m not in my right mind.  I guess,” he added, with a laugh, “that the doctor will allow I’ve my wits sufficiently for that?”

“Surely.  You are practically well now.”

Mr. Parsons was silent for a moment.  He prided himself on being close-mouthed about his private affairs until they were ripe for utterance.  His intention had been to defer until after the interview with his lawyer any statement of his purpose, but it suddenly occurred to him that it would please him to unbosom his secret to his companion because he felt sure in advance that she would sympathize fully with his plans.  He had meant to tell her when the instrument was signed.  Why not now?

“Selma,” he said, “I’ve known ever since my wife and daughter died that I ought to make a will, but I kept putting it off until it has almost happened that everything I’ve got went to my next of kin—­folk I’m fond of, too, and mean to remember—­but not fond enough for that.  If I give them fifty thousand dollars apiece—­the three of them—­I shall rest easy in my grave, even if they think they ought to have had a bigger slice.  It’s hard on a man who has worked all his days, and laid up close to a million of dollars, not to have a son or a daughter, flesh of my flesh, to leave it to; a boy or a girl given at the start the education I didn’t get, and who, by the help of my money, might make me proud, if I could look on, of my name or my blood.  It wasn’t to be, and I must grin and bear it, and do the next best thing.  I caught a glimpse of what that thing was soon after I lost my wife and daughter, and it was the thought of that more than anything which kept me from going crazy with despair.  I’m a plain man, an uneducated man, but the fortune I’ve made has been made honestly, and I’m going to spend it for the good of the American people—­to contribute my mite toward helping the cause of truth and good citizenship and free and independent ideas which this nation calls for.  I’m going to give my money for benevolent uses.”