Thus in wisdom and in charity, in patience and in faith, that gentle pair of lovers comforted the dying soul.
However, days rolled away, and Aunt Green lingered on still, tenaciously clinging unto life: until one morning early, she felt so much better, that she insisted on being propped up by pillows, and seeing all the household round her bed to speak to them.

So up came every one, in no small hope of legacies, and what the lawyers call "_donationes mortis causa_." The general was at her bed's-head, with, I am ashamed to say, perhaps unconsciously, a countenance more ridiculous than lugubrious; though he tried to subdue the buoyancy of hope and to put on looks of decent mourning; on the other side, the long-expectant legatee, Niece Jane, prudently concealed her questionable grief behind a scented pocket-handkerchief.

Julian held somewhat aloof, for the scene was too depressing for his taste: so he affected to read a prayer-book, wrong way up, with his tongue in his cheek: Charles, deeply solemnized at the near approach of death, knelt at the poor invalid's bedside; and Emily stood by, leaning over her, suffused in tears.

At the further corners of the bed, might be seen an old servant or two; and Mrs.Green's butler and coachman, each a forty years' fixture, presented their gray heads at the bottom of the room, and really looked exceedingly concerned.
Mrs.Green addressed them first, in her feeble broken manner: "Grant--and John--good and faithful--thank you--thank you both; and you too, kind Mrs.Lloyd, and Sally, and nurse--what's-your-name: give them the packets, nurse--all marked--first drawer, desk: there--there--God bless you--good--faithful." The old servants, full of sorrow at her approaching loss, were comforted too: for a kind word, and a hundred pound note a-piece, made amends for much bereavement: the sick-nurse found her gift was just a tithe of their's, and recognised the difference both just and kind.
"Niece Jane--you've waited--long--for--this day: my will--rewards you." "O dear--dear aunt, pray don't talk so; you'll recover yet, pray--pray don't:" she pretended to drown the rest in sorrow, but winked at her husband over the handkerchief.
"Julian!" (the precious youth attempted to look miserable, and came as called,) "you will find--I have remembered--you, Julian." So he winked, too, at his mother, and tried to blubber a "thank you." "Charles--where's Charles?
give me your hand, Charles dear--let me feel your face: here, Charles--a little pocket-book--good lad--good lad.
There's Emily, too--dear child, she came--too late--I forgot her--I forgot her! general give her half--half--if you love--love--Emi--" All at once her jaw dropped; her eyes, which had till now been preternaturally bright, filmed over; her head fell back upon the pillow; and the rich old aunt was dead.
Julian gave a shout that might have scared the parting spirit! Really, the general was shocked, and Mrs.Tracy too; and the servants murmured "shame--shame!" poor Charles hid his face; Emily looked up indignantly; but Julian asked, with an oath, "Where's the good of being hypocrites ?" and then added, "now, mother, let us find the will." Then the nurse went to close the dim glazed eyes; and the other sorrowing domestics slunk away; and Charles led Emily out of the chamber of death, saddened and shocked at such indecent haste.
Meanwhile, the hopeful trio rummaged every drawer--tumbled out the mingled contents of boxes, desk, and escritoire--still, no will--no will: and at last the nurse, who more than once had muttered, "Shame on you all," beneath her breath, said, "If you want the will, it's under her pillow: but don't disturb her yet, poor thing!" Julian's rude hand had already thrust aside the lifeless, yielding head, and clutched the will: the father and mother--though humbled and wonder-stricken at his daring--gathered round him; and he read aloud, boldly and steadily to the end, though with scowling brow, and many curses interjectional: "IN the name of God, Amen.

I, Constance Green, make this my last will and testament.