But a New York
blizzard put a stop to it. The cars broke down, and Abner, walking
home in thin shoes from a meeting, caught a chill, which, being
neglected, proved fatal.
Abner was troubled as he lay upon his bed. The children were
sitting very silent by the window. He sent Matthew out on a
message, and then beckoned Ann to come to him. He loved the boy,
too, but Ann was nearer to him.
"You haven't thought any more," he whispered, "about--"
"No," answered Ann. "You wished me not to."
"You must never think," he said, "to show your love for my memory by
doing anything that would not make you happy. If I am anywhere
around," he continued with a smile, "it will be your good I shall be
watching for, not my own way. You will remember that?"
He had meant to do more for them, but the end had come so much
sooner than he had expected. To Ann he left the house (Mrs. Travers
had already retired on a small pension) and a sum that, judiciously
invested, the friend and attorney thought should be sufficient for
her needs, even supposing--The friend and attorney, pausing to dwell
upon the oval face with its dark eyes, left the sentence unfinished.
To Matthew he wrote a loving letter, enclosing a thousand dollars.
He knew that Matthew, now in a position to earn his living as a
journalist, would rather have taken nothing.
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