It's a colour was
never mixed on any palette. It's--eh? Oh, I beg your pardon."
"I think you ought to," said Margaret, primly. Nevertheless, she had
brightened considerably.
"Of course," Mr. Woods continued with a fine colour, "I can't take the
money. That's absurd."
"Is it?" she queried, idly. "Now, I wonder how you're going to help
yourself?"
"Simplest thing in the world," he assured her. "You see this match,
don't you, Peggy? Well, now you're going to give me that paper I see
in that bag-thing at your waist, and I'm going to burn it till it's
all nice, soft, feathery ashes that can't ever be probated. And then
the first will, which is practically the same as the last, will be
allowed to stand, and I'll tell your father all about the affair,
because he ought to know, and you'll have to settle with those
colleges. And in that way," Mr. Woods submitted, "Uncle Fred's last
wishes will be carried out just as he expressed them, and there
needn't be any trouble--none at all. So give me the will, Peggy?"
It is curious what a trivial matter love makes of felony.
Margaret's heart sank.
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