In The Record Room, Surrogate's Office.

A tomb where legal ghouls grow fat;                 Where buried papers, fold on fold,             Crumble to dust, that 'thwart the sun                 Floats dim, a pallid ghost of gold.             The day is dying. All about,                 Dark, threat'ning shadows lurk; but still             I ponder o'er a dead girl's name                 Fast fading from a dead man's will.             Katrina Harland, fair and sweet,                 Sole heiress of your father's land,             Full many a gallant wooer rode                 To snare your heart, to win your hand.             And one, perchance who loved you best,                 Feared men might sneer "he sought her gold"             And never spoke, but turned away                 Stubborn and proud, to call you cold.             Cold? Would I knew! Perhaps you loved,                 And mourned him all a virgin life.             Perhaps forgot his very name                 As happy mother, happy wife.             Unanswered, sad, I turn away                 "You loved her first, then?" First well no             You little goose, the Harland will                 Was proved full sixty years ago.             But Katrine's lands to-day are known                 To lawyers as the Glass House tract;             Who were her heirs, no record shows;                 The title's bad, in point of fact,             If she left children, at her death,                 I've been retained to clear the title;             And all the questions, raised above,                 Are, you'll perceive, extremely vital.