Dirk Waldron was seated beside him; Wolfert grasped
his hand, pointed after his daughter, and for the first time since his
illness broke the silence he had maintained.
"I am going!" said he, shaking his head feebly, "and when I am gone--my
poordaughter--"
"Leave her to me, father!" said Dirk, manfully--"I'll take care of
her!"
Wolfert looked up in the face of the cheery, strapping youngster, and
saw there was none better able to take care of a woman.
"Enough," said he, "she is yours!--and now fetch me a lawyer--let me
make my will and die."
The lawyer was brought--a dapper, bustling, round-headed little man,
Roorback (or Rollebuck, as it was pronounced) by name. At the sight of
him the women broke into loud lamentations, for they looked upon the
signing of a will as the signing of a death-warrant. Wolfert made a
feeble motion for them to be silent. Poor Amy buried her face and her
grief in the bed-curtain. Dame Webber resumed her knitting to hide her
distress, which betrayed itself, however, in a pellucid tear, that
trickled silently down and hung at the end of her peaked nose; while
the cat, the only unconcerned member of the family, played with the
good dame's ball of worsted, as it rolled about the floor.
Wolfert lay on his back, his nightcap drawn over his forehead; his eyes
closed; his whole visage the picture of death. He begged the lawyer to
be brief, for he felt his end approaching, and that he had no time to
lose.
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