No:  they could not understand.  “Desire was just queerer than ever,” they said.  “It was such a pity, at her age.  What would she be if she lived to be as old as Uncle Titus himself?” Mrs. Megilp sighed, long-sufferingly.

Mrs. Froke lived on in the gray parlor; Hazel Ripwinkley ran in and out; she hardly knew which was most home now, Greenley or Aspen Street.  She and Desire were together in everything; in the bakery and laundry and industrial asylum that Luclarion Grapp’s missionary work was taking shape in; in Chapel classes and teachers meetings; in a Wednesday evening Read-and-Talk, as they called it, that they had gathered some dozen girls and young women into, for which the dear old library was open weekly; in walks to and fro about the city “on errands;” in long plans and consultations, now, since so much power had been laid on their young heads and hands.

Uncle Oldways had made “the strangest will that ever was,” if that were not said almost daily of men’s last disposals.  Out of the two sister’s families, the Ripwinkleys and the Ledwiths, he had chosen these two girls,—­children almost,—­whom he declared his “next of kin, in a sense that the Lord and they would know;” and to them he left, in not quite equal shares, the bulk of his large property; the income of each portion to be severally theirs,—­Desire’s without restriction, Hazel’s under her mother’s guardianship, until each should come to the age of twenty-five years.  If either of the two should die before that age, her share should devolve upon the other; if neither should survive it,—­then followed a division among persons and charities, such, as he said, with his best knowledge, and the Lord’s help, he felt himself at the moment of devising moved to direct.  At twenty-five he counseled each heir to make, promptly, her own legal testament, searching, meanwhile, by the light given her in the doing of her duty, for whom or whatsoever should be shown her to be truly, and of the will of God—­not man, her own “next of kin.”

“For needful human form,” he said, in conclusion, “I name Frances Ripwinkley executrix of this my will; but the Lord Himself shall be executor, above and through all; may He give unto you a right judgment in all things, and keep us evermore in his holy comfort!”

Some people even laughed at such a document as this, made as if the Almighty really had to do with things, and were surer than trustees and cunning law-conditions.

“Two girls!” they said, “who will marry—­the Lord knows whom—­and do, the Lord knows what, with it all!”

That was exactly what Titus Oldways believed.  He believed the Lord did know.  He had shown him part; enough to go by to the end of his beat; the rest was his.  “Everything escheats to the King, at last.”