It was very early in November that Mr. Smith, coming home one afternoon, became instantly aware that something very extraordinary had happened.  
In the living-room were gathered Mr. Frank Blaisdell, his wife, Jane, and their daughter, Mellicent. Mellicent's cheeks were pink, and her eyes more star-like than ever. Mrs. Jane's cheeks, too, were pink. Her eyes were excited, but incredulous. Mr. Frank was still in his white work-coat, which he wore behind the counter, but which he never wore upstairs in his home. He held an open letter in his hand.
 
It was an ecstatic cry from Mellicent that came first to Mr. Smith's ears.
 
"Oh, Mr. Smith, Mr. Smith, you can't guess what's happened! You couldn't guess in a million years!"
 
"No? Something nice, I hope." Mr. Smith was looking almost as happily excited as Mellicent herself.
 
"Nice—NICE!" Mellicent clasped her hands before her. "Why, Mr. Smith, we are going to have a hundred thousand—"
 
"Mellicent, I wouldn't talk of it—yet," her mother sharply.
 
"But, mother, it's no secret. It can't be kept secret!"
 
"Of course not—if it's true. But it isn't true," retorted the woman, with excited emphasis. "No man in his senses would do such a thing."
 
"Er—ah—w-what?" Mr. Smith, looking suddenly a little less happy.
 
"Leave a hundred thousand dollars apiece to three distant relations he never saw."
 
"But he was our cousin—you said he was our cousin," interposed
Mellicent, "and when he died—"
"The letter did not say he had died," corrected her mother. "He just hasn't been heard from. But he will be heard from—and then where will our hundred thousand dollars be?"
 
"But the lawyer's coming to give it to us," maintained Mr. Frank . Then he turned to Mr. Smith. "Here, read this, please, and tell us if we have lost our senses—or if somebody else has."
 
Mr. Smith took the letter. A close observer might have noticed that his hand shook a little. The letterhead carried the name of a Chicago law firm, but Mr. Smith did not glance at that. He at once into the text of the letter.
 
"Aloud, please, Mr. Smith. I want to hear it again," pleaded Mellicent.
 
DEAR SIR (read Mr. Smith then, after clearing his throat),—I understand that you are a distant of Mr. Stanley G. Fulton, the Chicago millionaire.
 
Some six months ago Mr. Fulton left this city on what was reported to be a somewhat extended exploring tour of South America. Before his departure he transferred to me, as trustee, certain securities worth about $300,000. He left with me a sealed envelope, entitled "Terms of Trust," and instructed me to open such envelope in six months from the date written thereon—if he had not returned—and thereupon to dispose of the securities according to the terms of the trust. I will add that he also left with me a second sealed envelope entitled "Last Will and Testament," but instructed me not to open such envelope until two years from the date written thereon.
 
The period of six months has now expired. I have opened the envelope entitled "Terms of Trust," and find that I am directed to convert the securities into cash with all convenient speed, and forthwith to pay over one third of the net proceeds to his kinsman, Frank G. Blaisdell; one third to his kinsman, James A. Blaisdell; and one third to his kinswoman, B. Blaisdell, all of Hillerton.
 
I shall, of course, discharge my duty as trustee under this instrument with all possible promptness. Some of the securities have already been converted into cash, and within a few days I shall come to Hillerton to pay over the cash in the form of checks; and I shall ask you at that time to be so good as to sign a receipt for your share. Meanwhile this letter is to you of your good fortune and to offer you my congratulations.
 
Very truly yours,
 
EDWARD D. NORTON.
"Oh-h!" breathed Mellicent.
 
"Well, what do you think of it?" demanded Mr. Frank Blaisdell, his arms akimbo.
 
"Why, it's fine, of course. I congratulate you," cried Mr. Smith, handing back the letter.
 
"Then it's all straight, you think?"
 
"Most assuredly!"
 
"Je-hos-a-phat!" exploded the man.
 
"But he'll come back—you see if he don't!" Mrs. Jane's voice was still positive.
 
"What if he does? You'll still have your hundred thousand," smiled Mr.
Smith.
"He won't take it back?"
 
"Of course not! I doubt if he could, if he wanted to."
 
"And we're really going to have a whole hundred thousand dollars?" breathed Mellicent.
 
"I reckon you are—less the inheritance tax, perhaps.
 
"What's that? What do you mean?" demanded Mrs. Jane. "Do you mean we've got to PAY because we've got that money?"
 
"Why, y-yes, I suppose so. Isn't there an inheritance tax in this
State?"
"How much does it cost?" Mrs. Jane's lips were at their most economical . "Do we have to pay a GREAT deal? Isn't there any way to save doing that?"
 
"No, there isn't," cut in her husband crisply. "And I guess we can pay the inheritance tax—with a hundred thousand to pay it out of. We're going to SPEND some of this money, Jane."
 
The telephone bell in the hall jangled its summons, and Mr. Frank answered it. In a minute he returned, a new excitement on his face.
 
"It's Hattie. She's crazy, of course. They're coming right over."
 
"Oh, yes! And they've got it, too, haven't they?" remembered Mellicent. "And Aunt Flora, and—" She stopped suddenly, a growing dismay in her eyes. "Why, he didn't—he didn't leave a cent to AUNT MAGGIE!" she cried.
 
"Gosh! that's so. Say, now, that's too bad!" There was genuine concern in Frank Blaisdell's voice.
 
"But why?" almost wept Mellicent.
 
Her mother sighed sympathetically.
 
"Poor Maggie! How she is left out—always!"
 
"But we can give her some of ours, mother,—we can give her some of ours," urged the girl.
 
"It isn't ours to give—yet," remarked her mother, a bit coldly.
 
"But, mother, you WILL do it," Mellicent. "You've always said you would, if you had it to give."
 
"And I say it again, Mellicent. I shall never see her suffer, you may be sure,—if I have the money to relieve her. But—" She stopped abruptly at the sound of an excited voice down the hall. Miss Flora, evidently coming in through the kitchen, was hurrying toward them.
 
"Jane—Mellicent—where are you? Isn't anybody here? Mercy me!" she panted, as she reached the room and sank into a chair. "Did you ever hear anything like it in all your life? You had one, too, didn't you?" she cried, her eyes falling on the letter in her brother's hand. "But 'tain't true, of course!"
 
Miss Flora wore no head-covering. She wore one glove (wrong side out), and was carrying the other one. Her dress, evidently donned hastily for the street, was fastened, showing the topmost button without a buttonhole.
 
"Mr. Smith says it's true," triumphed Mellicent.
 
"How does he know? Who told him 'twas true?" demanded Miss Flora.
 
So almost accusing was the look in her eyes that Mr. Smith actually blinked a little. He grew visibly confused.
 
"Why—er—ah—the letter speaks for itself Miss Flora," he stammered.
 
"But it CAN'T be true," Miss Flora. "The idea of a man I never saw giving me a hundred thousand dollars like that!—and Frank and Jim, too!"
 
"But he's your cousin—you said he was your cousin," Mr. Smith reminded her. "And you have his picture in your album. You showed it to me."
 
"I know it. But, my sakes! I didn't know HE knew I was his cousin. I don't s'pose he's got MY picture in HIS album! But how did he know about us? It's some other Flora Blaisdell, I tell you."
 
"There, I never thought of that," cried Jane. "It probably is some other Blaisdells. Well, anyhow, if it is, we won't have to pay that inheritance tax. We can save that much."
 
"Save! Well, what do we lose?" demanded her husband .
 
At this moment the of the front-door knob and an knocking brought Mrs. Jane to her feet.
 
"There's Hattie, now, and that door's locked," she cried, hurrying into the hall.
 
When she returned a moment later Harriet Blaisdell and Bessie were with her.
 
There was about Mrs. Harriet Blaisdell a new, indescribable air of commanding importance. To Mr. Smith she appeared to have grown inches taller.
 
"Well, I do hope, Jane, NOW you'll live in a decent place," she was saying, as they entered the room, "and not oblige your friends to climb up over a grocery store."
 
"Well, I guess you can stand the grocery store a few more days, Hattie," observed Frank Blaisdell dryly. "How long do you s'pose we'd live—any of us—if 'twa'n't for the grocery stores to feed us? Where's Jim?"
 
"Isn't he here? I told him I was coming here, and to come right over himself at once; that the very first thing we must have was a family , just ourselves, you know, so as to plan what to give out to the public."
 
"Er—ah—" Mr. Smith was on his feet, looking somewhat embarrassed; "perhaps, then, you would rather I were not present at the—er—family conclave."
 
"Nonsense!" shouted Frank Blaisdell.
 
"Why, you ARE one of the family, 'seems so," cried Mellicent.
 
"No, indeed, Mr. Smith, don't go," smiled Mrs. Hattie pleasantly.
"Besides, you are interested in what concerns us, I know—for the book;
so, of course, you'll be interested in this of dear Cousin
Stanley's."
Mr. Smith suddenly behind his handkerchief, with one of the choking coughs to which he appeared to be somewhat .
 
"Ain't you getting a little familiar with 'dear Cousin Stanley,'
Hattie?" drawled Frank Blaisdell.
Miss Flora leaned forward earnestly.
 
"But, Hattie, we were just sayin', ' you came, that it couldn't be true; that it must mean some other Blaisdells somewhere."
 
"Absurd!" Harriet. "There couldn't be any other Frank and Jim and Flora Blaisdell, in a Hillerton, too. Besides, Jim said over the telephone that that was one of the best law firms in Chicago. Don't you suppose they know what they're talking about? I'm sure, I think it's quite the expected thing that he should leave his money to his own people. Come, don't let's waste any more time over that. What we've got to decide is what to DO. First, of course, we must order expensive mourning all around."
 
"M............