A Rolling Stone by B. M. Croker

It was dinner time in one of the larger hotels at Lossiemouth -- a soft September evening, the windows stood wide, admitting the warm salt air, and above the clattering of plates and voices, one occasionally caught the murmuring of the North Atlantic, the creak of an oar, or the scream of a seagull. At a table in one corner a party of three were seated -- a party that were, as a rule, accorded an unusual and flattering amount of attention -- a white-moustached soldier, a dignified, elderly lady (whose grey hair was undoubtedly dressed by a maid), and a remarkably pretty, dark-eyed girl. They were in mourning, but nothing so deep as to suggest an overwhelming calamity; the young lady wore white, the elder black crêpe-de-chine, the man black studs and a black tie, and their names in the hotel register were "Major-General, Mrs., and Miss Morven, London."

Miss Parrett was no more; a sudden attack of "her bronchitis" -- she always spoke as if it were an exclusive possession -- had hurried her out of existence. She had, however, executed her will, and after elaborate directions respecting her funeral, her monument, and her hatchment, it was found that she had bequeathed all she possessed to her sister Susan, with the exception of her automobile, which was left to her dear friend, Mrs. Maria Wiggens; and whether this memento was instigated by generosity or malice, is a debated question until the present hour. There were no legacies to charities, or even the smallest souvenir for her special little clique. The contents of the testament were a sore disappointment to some, but few grudged Miss Susan independence and fortune, for she knew how to make excellent use of both. Isabella Parrett was no more, and Susan, her sister, reigned in her stead.