divided his little fortune, share and share alike,
according to his own simple notions of justice
and love. The daughters married and settled far
away, the one in Italy, the other on the borders
of Germany. The son, who was called Henry,
and born in 1762, inherited his third of the
patrimony, became a farmer, and married at
twenty years of age. He was necessarily a much
poorer man than his father. Two-thirds of the
best land had been sold to pay off his sisters'
shares in the property; but he kept the old
château (though he dwelt in only a corner of it),
and was none the less respected by his neighbours.
Here he lived frugally and industriously,
often driving his own plough, and branding his
own sheep; and here he brought up his two sons,
Saxon and Martin, the first of whom was born in
1783, and the second in 1786. They were all the
family he reared. Other children were born to
him from time to time, and played about his
hearth, and gladdened the half-deserted little
château with their baby laughter; but they all
died in earliest infancy, and the violets grew
thickly over their little graves in the churchyard
on the hill.

Now Henry Trefalden knew right well that
one of these boys, or a descendant of one of these
boys, must inherit the great legacy by-and-by.
He knew, too, that it was his duty to fit them for
that gigantic trust as well as his poor means
would allow, and he devoted himself to the task
with a love and courage that never wearied. To
make them honest, moderate, charitable, and self-
denying; to teach them (theoretically) the true
uses of wealth; to instruct them thoroughly in
the history and laws of England; to bring them
up, if possible, with English sympathies; to keep
their English accent pure; to train them in the
fear of God, the love of knowledge, and the desire
of excellence—this was Henry Trefalden's lifelong
task, and he fulfilled it nobly.

His boys throve alike in body and in mind.
They were both fine fellows; brave, simple, and
true. Neither of them would have told a lie to
save his life. Saxon was fair, as a Saxon should
be. Martin was dark-eyed and olive-skinned,
like his mother. Saxon was the more active and
athletic; Martin the more studious. As they
grew older, Saxon became an expert mountaineer,
rifle-shot, and chamois-hunter; Martin declared
his wish to enter the Lutheran church. So the
elder brother stayed at home, ploughing and
planting, sowing and reaping, shooting and fishing,
like his father and grandfather before him;
and the younger trudged away one morning with
his Alpenstock in his hand, and his wallet on
his back, bound for Geneva.

Time went on. Henry Trefalden died; young
Saxon became the head of the family; and
Martin returned from the University to accept a
curacy distant about eight miles from home.
By-and-by, the good old priest, who had been
the boys' schoolmaster long years before, also
passed away; and Martin became pastor in his
native place. The brothers now lived with their
mother in the dilapidated château, fulfilling each
his little round of duties, and desiring nothing
beyond them. They were very happy. That
quiet valley was their world. Those Alps
bounded all their desires. They knew there was
a great legacy accumulating in England, which
might fall to Saxon's share some day, if he lived
long enough; but the time was so far distant,
and the whole story seemed so dim and fabulous,
that unless to laugh over it together in the
evening, when they sat smoking their long pipes
side by side under the trellised vines, the
brothers never thought or spoke of the wealth
which might yet be theirs. Thus more time
went on, and old Madame Trefalden died, and
the bachelor brothers were left alone in the
little grey château. It was now 1830. In thirty
more years the great legacy would fall due, and
which of them might then be living to inherit
it? Saxon was already a florid bald-headed
mountaineer of forty-seven; Martin, a grey-
haired priest of forty-four. What was to be
done?

Sitting by their own warm hearth one bleak
winter's evening, the two old bachelors took
these questions into grave consideration. On
the table between them lay a faded parchment
copy of the alderman's last will and testament.
It was once the property of worthy Captain
Jacob, and had remained in the family ever since.
They had brought this out to aid their deliberations,
and had read it through carefully, from
beginning to end—without, perhaps, being very
much the wiser.

"It would surely go to thee, Martin, if I died
first," said the elder brother.

"Thou'lt not die first," replied the younger,
confidently. "Thou'rt as young, Sax, as thou
wert twenty years ago."

"But in the course of nature—- "

"In the course of nature the stronger stuff
outlasts the weaker. See how much heartier
you are than myself!"

Saxon Trefalden shook his head.

"That's not the question," said he. "The
real point is, would the money fall to thee? I
think it would. It says here, 'in total exclusion
of the younger branches of my family and their
descendants.' Mark that—'the younger branches,'
Martin. Thou'rt not a younger branch. Thou'rt
of the elder branch."

"Ay, brother, but what runs before? Go back
a line, and thou'lt see it says 'to the direct heir
male of the eldest son of my eldest son.' Now, thou'rt
the eldest son of the eldest son, and I am not
thy direct male heir. I am only thy younger
brother."

"That's true," replied Saxon. "It seems to
read both ways."

"All law matters seem to read both ways,
Sax," said the priest; "and are intended to read
both ways, 'tis my belief, for the confusion of the
world. But why puzzle ourselves about the will
at all? We can only understand the plain fact
that thou art the direct heir, and that the fortune