But what was it he had meant to do? Ah, yes! Ellen was waiting, pencil in hand.
"I give to my daughter Ellen all my property and make my friend--"
"'Make my friend,'" repeated Ellen after a pause.
"It'll come to me! Listen! You and Matthew inherit this farm from your mother. What I have besides you must take. Don't let them shame you out of it! Remember it's my will. If you wish, you can live economically and share with Matthew after you've had your education. I feel better, darling." He took suddenly a long, relieving breath. After all he was not to be cut off now from life, from Ellen. He looked deeply into her frightened eyes. It was now that she would need him! He had, he felt suddenly with amazement, not yet really lived; he could not _die_! Tears rolled down upon his cheeks. "I'll be able to eat supper with you, I'm sure. We needn't worry to complete the paper. The doctor will write it for me. Don't look so horrified. I think--"
His smile stiffened suddenly and drops of perspiration appeared upon his forehead. Was everything then over? He put out his hands and took Ellen's face between them.
"Don't let them keep you here! Remember!"
Her head dropped to his breast, pressed by his hands close to his heart. She could see nothing, but she could hear a strange beating sound like a wooden hammer upon flesh. Her body was cramped; it seemed to her that she could not breathe; then her father's embrace relaxed and she rose quickly.
Her wild glance sought the window. Mrs. Sassaman drove slowly up the lane, Dr. Wescoe's car turned in from the highway, but their coming now made no difference.
Within a few minutes the farmhouse took on the air of almost hysterical activity which follows upon a sudden death. Mrs. Sassaman, after sinking upon a chair and giving a few tearful gasps, went to her room to change her dress, so that she might set to work. The tenant farmer drove away to carry the startling news to Grandfather and Matthew, and his wife panted up the hill and sat waiting in the kitchen until Mrs. Sassaman should be ready to give her the detailed information for which her soul longed. But Mrs. Sassaman had too exalted a sense of her own importance to gossip. There were, moreover, many things to be done at once, the house to be put in perfect order, funeral meats to be baked, the bees to be told of their master's death, and all the jars of preserves in the cellar to be turned.