My dear aunt had now joined me with my little girls. One night I was awakened by a voice speaking to me under my window. There stood a negro man. "Mr. Green wants you right away, madam," he said. "He thinks he's dying, an' he says he is _obliged_ to see you. I brought a note."
The note from a relative of Mr. Green confirmed the man's statement, adding: "Let nothing prevent your coming. George will take care of you."
My aunt felt a little nervous at so strange and peremptory a summons, but at last we decided I must go. She could see me in the moonlight every step of the way, down the path, across the little bridge at the bottom of the ravine, and up the ascent beyond. So I dressed hurriedly and departed.
I found the house in darkness and silence. The lady who had written me took me into her room and whispered her story. Mr. Green was extremely ill and in great distress because he had made no will. The house was full of his relatives, gathered because his death was expected. He wished to leave everything he possessed to his wife and youngest daughter, Nannie. He had provided for the others—given them their portion. He could not secretly summon a lawyer from town. He was miserably anxious, sleepless, and unhappy.
To-night he had found himself alone with this relative who was nursing him, and drawing her down to his pillow, had begged her "Send for Mrs. Pryor—_now_ and quick. She will write for me."
I knew him only by sight, and I was, of course, surprised. But I did not hesitate. I was at once introduced into his room, and by the light of a solitary candle burning upon the floor in a corner I dimly discerned the gray head and closed eyes of the sick man. He was sleeping peacefully, and we dared not awaken him. Pen, ink, and paper were given me, and prone upon my elbows and knees in the dim corner, I wrote a will, repeating faithfully the words I had received, beginning: "In the name of Almighty God—Amen—I, William Green," etc.
We then awaited in silence the waking of the sick man. Very gently I told him my errand, and read twice what I had written, asking him again and again, "Are you sure you do not wish to leave anything whatever to your other children?" "_No, no, no!_" he answered. I put my arm beneath him, raised him, and the paper was laid on a pillow before him. He looked around helplessly. His spectacles! We placed them, and with the pen in trembling fingers he signed his name, and uttered the last words he probably ever spoke,—"Three witnesses!" His relative signed, I signed, and the negro nurse signed with her mark.