"Yes, of course, of course," nodded Jane again nervously. "Say, Flora, I wonder—do you suppose WE'LL ever hear from him? He left us all that money—he knows that, of course. He can't ask for it back—the lawyer said he couldn't do that! Don't you remember? But, I wonder—do you suppose we ought to write him and—and thank him?"

"Oh, mercy!" exclaimed Miss Flora, aghast. "Mercy me, Jane! I'd be scared to death to do such a thing as that. Oh, you don't think we've got to do THAT?" Miss Flora had grown actually pale.

Jane frowned.

"I don't know. We'd want to do what was right and proper, of course.

But I don't see—" She paused helplessly.

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Miss Flora gave a sudden hysterical little laugh.

"Well, I don't see how we're going to find out what's proper, in this case," she giggled. "We can't write to a magazine, same as I did when I wanted to know how to answer invitations and fix my knives and forks on the table. We CAN'T write to them, 'cause nothing like this ever happened before, and they wouldn't know what to say. How'd we look writing, 'Please, dear Editor, when a man wills you a hundred thousand dollars and then comes to life again, is it proper or not proper to write and thank him?' They'd think we was crazy, and they'd have reason to! For my part, I—"

The telephone bell rang sharply, and Jane rose to answer it. She was gone some time. When she came back she was even more excited.

"It was Frank. He's heard it. It was in the papers to-night."

"Did it tell anything more?"

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"Not much, I guess. Still, there was some. He's going to bring it home.

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It's 'most supper-time. Why don't you wait?" she questioned, as Miss

Flora got hastily to her feet.