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Bradley announced with a look more of shocked surprise than of grief. "She died in Canada quite suddenly, and this is from her attorney asking us," she looked across at her husband, "to be present at the reading of the will." "Well, well," said Mr. Bradley slowly, "poor Beatrice Powerson dead at last. I suppose she got as much out of life as any of us, though, in her eccentric way."
Then one morning came a long, businesslike envelope, with a typewritten address, that caused a stir in the family circle. Mrs. Bradley opened it with a puzzled frown between her brows, then uttered a startled exclamation. "What is it, dear?" asked Mr. Bradley, while Billie and Chet crowded closer to her chair. "Aunt Beatrice Powerson is dead," Mrs.
Gilligan had no intention of bumping her head. She swung open the door in question, and they found themselves in a butler's pantry that seemed almost as large as Billie's bedroom at home. "Goodness! the Powerson that first built the house must have expected to entertain lots of company," exclaimed Violet, looking with wonder at the rows of curtained cupboards.
"I haven't been there for a number of years," replied her mother, knitting her brows in an effort to recall the details of Billie's queer inheritance. "As I remember it, it is an old-fashioned rambling affair. It must have been considered rather handsome in its palmy years, and it has been in the Powerson family for generations. In fact, I believe it dates back to revolutionary days.
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