It was a cold, clear day in early January, during that dead time following the turn of the year. A thin smattering of snow covered the ground, but the sky was clear and serene. The feeble sun hung low in the midday sky, casting long shadows across the ground. All too soon it would would pass below the horizon again, and another long winter's night would begin. Winnie had to make the most of the precious hours of daylight while she could.

Winnie was dressed in coat, hat, scarf and gloves. Her cheeks were pink where they had been pinched by the cold and her footsteps were as brisk as she could make them. Haggis was having a hard time keeping up with her. Winnie suspected that he meandered off as often as he did to investigate a myriad of exciting smells so that he could hide his age and decrepitude.

Suddenly Haggis barked happily and scampered with uncharacteristic energy past her. Winnie looked around to find the cause of the commotion.

It took a moment for her to recognise and remember the young man who was now crouching down, making fuss of the dog. It had been almost a year since they had met, after all.

"Clark!" she exclaimed. "This is a surprise!" She wondered whether it was a welcome one.

"Hi, Mrs Byrne." Clark smiled readily and warmly as he stood up. His smile was just as dazzling as she remembered. "I was passing by, and I decided to take another look at the beach. I wondered what it looked like when there wasn't a gale blowing!"

"And what do you think of it?"

Clark inhaled deeply and said, "It's beautiful."

Winnie nodded, pleased with his approval. Of course, it was no less than the beach deserved.

"I never saw a real beach when I was growing up," Clark said. "Except on television, of course. But that never prepares you for the real thing. This—" he waved a hand to encompass the sea and the sand "—is wonderful."

"So what was it like, where you grew up?"

"Oh..." Clark shrugged. Winnie watched him as he searched for the words he needed to describe... Where was it he had said he was from again? Ah, yes. Kansas. "Mostly flat," he said eventually. "A few trees. Some hills. Acres and acres of farmland, of course. Lots of corn, although my parents keep cattle, too."

"It sounds nice," said Winnie, more out of politeness than with any real conviction. She couldn't imagine anywhere without the sea.

"It is nice," agreed Clark.

They fell into step and walked silently a little way down the strand. Then Clark asked, "How's Jessi?"

"She's fine. Doing well in school."

"That's good."

"And yourself?"

"Pretty much the same," said Clark.

Haggis, Winnie noticed, as they wandered along the beach, appeared to have wandered off again. She was beginning to wonder where he had got to, when he suddenly broke into a full-throated frenzy of barks. Something had to be very wrong, thought Winnie, to make him react like that!

She broke into as much of a run as her tired, old legs could manage, and she mentally cursed the way the years had aged her. Oh, to be able to run as she had done, back when she was young!

The way Clark was running now.

The young man tore along the beach, guided only by the sound of the dog's alarm call. Then he disappeared from view, into a small gully that channelled water down from the hills behind the house.

When Winnie, out of breath, caught up with him, he was kneeling down, crooning at a sheep that lay in the bottom of the gully, tangled in what remained of a barbed-wire fence. She scrambled as best she could over a few scattered boulders to join him.

"Oh!" she breathed in horror. "That's my ram! He must have fallen down from the field up there, and pulled the fence along with him! Is he all right?"

"I think so, yes. Just a bit panicky. He'll be fine, once we get him out of this mess."

She crouched down, her joints protesting vehemently as she did so, and added her soothing voice to Clark's. Between them, they persuaded the ram to stop struggling, then they carefully worked together to release him from the wire.

Finally the ram was free. As if to reassure Winnie that he was fine, he immediately scrambled to his feet, bleated loudly, and scrabbled his way up a steep slope and out of sight.

"Well, there's gratitude for you," laughed Clark. "He didn't even stick around to say thank you!"

"Then I'll just have to say it for him, won't I?" said Winnie. Then, to reinforce her point, she added, "Thank you."

"You're welcome, Mrs Byrne. Now, if you can lend me some tools, I'll fix the fence for you before anything else can fall down here."

"I don't want you to go to any trouble..." Winnie said doubtfully.

"It'd be no trouble, really."

"Well, if you're absolutely sure... To be honest, that fence has been worrying me for a while. My grandson, Doug, promised me a couple of weeks ago that he'd take a look at it just as soon as he had a moment. But he doesn't have much spare time these days, not now he's started working full time at the oil terminal."

"Well, I'll fix it now," said Clark. "Then you won't have to worry about it any more."

"Well, then... Thank you! I'd appreciate it. And when you're done, you must come in and have a bite to eat. You'll have earned it."

*****

"You're a good worker," Winnie said a little while later. They were once again sitting at her kitchen table, this time with tea and fruit cake in front of them. "Thank you."

"It was nothing, really, Mrs Byrne. I'd have done the same for any of the neighbours back home."

Winnie considered him for a few seconds, then said, "Maybe you would, but that doesn't mean that I appreciate your efforts any less. That ram's a good breeder and I'd hate to see anything happen to him." She remembered the way Clark had calmed the sheep down, and she added, "You'll make a good farmer, one of these days."

She glimpsed a flicker of something in Clark's expression. Then, tentatively, he said, "I don't think I'm going to be a farmer."

"Why not? You're obviously a natural with stock."

"I..." He shook his head. "I just don't think it's for me, you know?"

Winnie didn't know, so she said nothing. Instead, she waited patiently for him to say something more.

"I... I don't seem to fit in around Smallville anymore. Back when I was a little kid, everything was fine. But then... I guess I started to grow up. I began to change. And last year when I found out that I could—" He stopped abruptly and shook his head. "No, farming's not for me."

"What will you do instead?"

"I'm not sure, but right now I'm in school – what you'd call university, I guess – and I think I'm going to major in journalism."

"Journalism?" Winnie asked. "Like for a newspaper?"

Clark nodded.

"You'll need a lot of learning for that, I would imagine."

"I guess so," Clark said. He didn't sound unduly worried, though.

"Your parents must be proud of you."

Clark nodded. "I think they are. But my dad never says much and I think he's also a little disappointed with the way things are turning out. He always wanted a son to pass the farm on to, but since I'm an only child, that's not going to happen. My mom, though... She's great. I think she might have gone to university, if she hadn't married my dad."

They sat in silence for a few more minutes and sipped companionably on their tea. Winnie thought about what he had just said, and the way he'd said it, then cut Clark another piece of cake. Finally, she said, "Having more children wouldn't guarantee that there would be someone for your dad to pass the farm on to, you know. Take my children, for example. Three of them have moved away from these islands altogether and, of the two that stayed, only one is a crofter. The other works as an estate agent in Lerwick."

"So what will happen to this place when you..." Clark trailed off uncomfortably.

"When I die, do you mean?"

Clark nodded.

"Don't be embarrassed to say it, boy! It'll come to us all, you know!" Then more soberly, Winnie said, "I don't know what will happen. But I gave up worrying about it a long time ago."

That wasn't strictly true, of course. Although she tried not to think about it, she never really succeeded in banishing her worries altogether. She couldn't imagine this land without a Byrne to work it. However, unless one of her descendants had a change of heart...

"Anyway, that's not the point. The point is that all a parent really wants of his or her child is for them to be happy. If you would rather do something other than take over your father's farm, you shouldn't feel guilty about it. No right thinking parent would want to stop you from being happy, and I bet that's just as true about your father as it is for anyone else. And if he doesn't say that he wants you to stay on the farm, then all that means is that he's leaving the decision of what you do up to you. His silence is a gift, Clark. You should treasure it."

Winnie watched as Clark let her words sink in. She could see tension she hadn't even realised was there leave his shoulders. It was obvious to her that Clark had been wrestling with the issue of his future for a long time, and finally he was making peace with the decision he had made. Eventually he said, "Hearing that... It helps more than you can possibly imagine. Thank you, Mrs Byrne. Thank you so much!"

*****

From then on, theirs was an odd kind of friendship. It hovered somewhere beyond casual acquaintance but it was less than intimate. Years passed, and their distant affection for one another was punctuated by occasional visits by Clark, who, after earning his degree, had decided to travel around the world. He seemed to take odd jobs where and when he could, but he never stayed long in any of them.

Clark would drop by and tell her stories of exotic places she had barely heard of. He would bring small gifts at Christmas and Winnie would tell him that he should not waste his money on her. He would do little jobs as and when they needed doing on the croft, and Winnie would make him tea and tell him about her ever expanding family.

And then she would ask him when he was going to marry, settle down, and raise a family of his own, because that was the kind of life she understood best.

Although Winnie still wondered where Clark came from, her wariness eased. He gradually won her trust and regard, and that was all that mattered.

*****

Winnie reached up stiffly and placed the star on the top of her Christmas tree. Then she stepped back to survey her handiwork. She nodded, satisfied.

At eighty-three years old, she had long since ceased to be overly bothered about Christmas. However, her children, her grandchildren and, most of all, her great-grandchildren expected her to make an effort. Her children and grandchildren saw such efforts as reassuring evidence that the passing years were only slowing taking their toll on the family matriarch. For the youngest of her great grandchildren the fact that it was Christmas was reason enough for them to think that Winnie ought to make a fuss over the season.

So, for all their sakes, Winnie had carefully hung Christmas cards across the chimney breast and tinsel around the door frames. She'd taken most trouble, however, over the Christmas tree she'd positioned on an occasional table in a corner. That she had decorated with love.

And memories.

Each glass ball carried a memory with it. And, when the children, grandchildren and great grandchildren came around, she would tell them about those memories, and they would listen, never tiring of Winnie's stories. Or, rather, if they did tire of the stories she told, they hid it well.

Winnie and Arthur had bought the first few baubles together, soon after they were married. They'd thought the baubles were a wicked extravagance, back when times were lean. For years they had made do without a tree; they'd hung the glass balls in the windows of the house instead. Other decorations had been added to the collection later, most as little tokens of affection from each other. And slowly, over the years, the collection had grown.

Some of the baubles had been made by her children, grandchildren and great grandchildren. These were the handmade ones, mostly rough, ready and cheap in materials, but infinitely precious in every way that counted.

Winnie missed Arthur. After nearly fifteen years alone, she knew that she always would. They'd loved each other all through their forty-six years of marriage.

She turned away from the tree and walked over to the fireplace. She picked up the photograph off the mantel and smiled down at her husband's face. She ran her fingers lightly across the glass, caressing it as gently as she had once caressed his cheeks. "The house looks good this year, Arthur," she whispered. "Even if I do say so myself."

Her reverie was interrupted by a knock at the door. "Come in!" she cried. "The door is open!" She carefully replaced the photograph on the mantel and turned around just in time to see her visitor pause on the threshold.

"Hi, Mrs Byrne. I was... in the neighbourhood, and I just wanted to drop in to wish you a merry Christmas. Also, I wanted to give you this." He held out a small gift.

She eyed him and tried to chastise him. "You shouldn't have!" Unfortunately, she knew that the severity in her words was at odds with her tone and the twinkle in her eyes. Her pleasure shone through as she reached out and carefully took the gift from him. She placed it under the tree and said, "There. It looks just right, don't you think?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Sit down, sit down, and I'll make you tea!"

"Tea would be great, Mrs Byrne, but let me make it. I don't want to be a bother."

"You're no bother, lad. You know that."

Clark smiled at her use of the endearment, probably thinking it incongruous that she would call an adult in his twenties a lad. However, these days, everyone under the age of seventy was a lad to Winnie. Clark, although he didn't know it, had a lot more growing to do before Winnie would even think to call him a man.

*****

More years passed. The croft became too much for Winnie to manage, so she rented out the land and sold her stock. Now the sheep that grazed her grass belonged to someone else. She became more and more house-bound. Increasingly she relied on the visits of others to keep her links with the outside world alive.

Jessi's parents moved off the island, moving to Aberdeen. Jessi, herself, went to college, then met a banker and settled down in Dundee. Winnie's family continued to grow as more great grandchildren came along, but they dispersed, moving across Shetland and then across Scotland. Jessi's uncle – the grandchild who, so long ago, had named her dog – had taken his family even further afield. Now every birthday and Christmas Winnie would receive several parcels with Vancouver postmarks. She had an ever increasing collection of photographs of Canadian great grandchildren who she had never seen.

And through all the changes, Clark remained a constant. He never forgot her. She never quite knew how he managed it, given all the travelling he seemed to do, but he remained a more regular visitor than many of her own family.

*****

"Now, tell me, have you met that special someone yet?"

They were sitting in Winnie's kitchen, a fresh pot of tea and a plate of digestive biscuits in front of them. At Winnie's question, Clark looked up from the plug he was rewiring.

To her surprise, instead of the automatic no she had become accustomed to over the years, this time some colour crept into Clark's cheeks. He sucked on his lower lip for a moment or two, then shyly said, "I think so, yes."

"Go on," prompted Winnie.

"You know I moved to Metropolis a couple of years ago?"

Winnie nodded. Clark had told her that much before. She thought he worked for a newspaper there, but he had been sparing of the details. Besides, the name would have meant nothing to her, given that they were lucky to get the British dailies on her island, let alone anything more exotic.

"Well, I have a colleague. Her name is Lois, and she's beautiful and brilliant. I think I fell in love with her the minute I saw her, but it took me a while to admit it to myself, let alone confess how I was feeling to my folks." He laughed. "Of course, it turned out that they'd figured things out months before!"

Winnie nodded and smiled. She liked hearing about his parents. They sounded like a lovely couple.

"The only problem was that Lois didn't feel the same way. But... I think she might be..."

"Coming round to your way of thinking?"

"Yeah. There have been a few times in the last few months when there has been something about the way she's looked at me. It's not the same as how she used to. It's like..." The colour in his cheeks heightened.

"Like?"

"Like she knows something has changed, and she's trying to figure out what it is."

"She doesn't know?"

He shook his head.

"I don't think so."

"But you think she's falling for you?"

"I... I'm not sure, but I'm hopeful. Plus, there's something else."

"Oh?"

He nodded. "Something happened at Christmas. I knew that Lois was going to be alone, you see, so I made an excuse to stay in Metropolis with her. We held hands, watched the snow fall and listened to carollers together. And, for a moment there I thought we might even kiss."

"You didn't?"

"No."

"And then, last week, I was kidnapped—"

"Kidnapped! Clark! What kind of a life do you lead?"

"It was nothing. Just a couple of mad scientists with a cyborg."
Sometimes Winnie wondered how many of Clark's stories were true and how many were figments of his imagination. She could tell that he was still evasive at times, but, unlike during their memorable first meeting, his evasions tended to manifest themselves in omissions rather than outright untruths. So, were his stories of kidnappings, near death encounters with gangsters and the like actually true? Or were they tall-tales, like his fabrication of a shipwreck had once been? In many ways, she hoped the latter was the case because, if his stories were true, she could only be scared for him, even if he seemed to take all these things in his stride.

"Anyway, Lois came to rescue me. It was an incredibly reckless thing for her to do, but really brave, and I figure that has to mean something. Plus she told a mutual friend that there wasn't anything she wouldn't do for me." He said the last with a mixture of bashfulness, pride and awe in his voice.

"So what's stopping you getting together, if she feels that way about you?" asked Winnie.

"I don't know. I guess... the timing never seems right or something. And I don't want to pressure her into doing something before she's ready. She's been hurt so many times before and..." He shrugged. "It's complicated."

"But you like her, this Lois?"

"Oh, yes! I think... No. I know that I love her. And I'll wait for her for as long as it takes her to realise that she feels the same way about me. But the waiting is just so frustrating sometimes!"

"I waited years for my Arthur," said Winnie. "The waiting was frustrating for me, too, Clark. But patience is a virtue. Just you remember that. And your patience will be rewarded, I'm sure."

"Thanks, Mrs Byrne. That makes me feel a lot better. Here, do you want to see her picture? I have one in my wallet."

*****

Several more years passed. Winnie found her little house harder to manage and she became increasingly reliant on the kindness of her neighbours and the strangers social services sent around. When she had visitors, she tended to sit back and let them do the talking. She spoke less and listened more, and she was content.

Still Clark visited.

Somewhere along the line, Clark's patience had been rewarded, just as Winnie had predicted it would be, and he and Lois managed to get together. There had obviously been more than a few bumps in the road along the way, but Clark never went into details, and Winnie, now used to his occasional fits of secrecy, didn't bother to ask for them. He was, however, far more forthcoming about his wedding ceremony, a wonderfully romantic affair that that took place in the middle of nowhere, with only immediate family and intimate friends present. It sounded terribly romantic to Winnie, and Winnie liked nothing better than a good romance.

More time passed.

Lois and Clark adopted a child, a little girl they called Rose.

Clark proudly brought photos of both Lois and Rose for Winnie to see and Winnie painstakingly knitted a pair of pale yellow booties.

*****

The last time Winnie Byrne saw Clark was the summer before her ninety-fifth birthday – the summer before she died. She was sitting in the conservatory her children had built on the back of her house for her eighty-fifth birthday, painstakingly knitting a sweater for her second youngest grandchild. There had been a time with her fingers danced nimbly, wrapping the wool around the needles and manipulating the pins with ease. Nowadays, though, the once automatic task required effort. As with so many other things, she found her ease at knitting slipping away. She had grown slow with the passing years.

Still, she wasn't going to give up, just because she was slowing down. Not a bit of it! So, she resigned herself to taking her time, working on the basis that managing a little, while worse than a lot, was far better than none at all.

It had been a perfect summer. It had been like the endless summers she remembered from her childhood, she thought, a smile gracing her wizened face. The sun, which was now easing down towards the western horizon, had shone every day since the beginning of July, the temperature had been a couple of degrees warmer than was usual, and the wind had seldom been more than a light breeze.
Winnie lowered her knitting and turned her incurious watery eyes towards the fields that her neighbour, Tom, farmed these days. The good weather had brought the crops on well. The harvest was going to be early this year. Then she turned her gaze back towards the beach.

The water was a vivid shade of turquoise and the sand a pale stripe of creamy-white. From time to time she could hear the eerie, strident cries of the oystercatchers. If she chose not to seek them out, it was not because her eyes now lacked the power to do so. In fact, her eyes were almost as acute as they had ever been. Rather, it was because she did not have the inclination to take the time to look. So attuned was she to her home that she didn't need to see the oystercatchers to know they were there. Nor did she need to look for the dunlin or the ringed plovers to know that they were also probing the beach for food, or that the shags and eider ducks were bobbing in the water, a little way from the shore. That they were there was a given, and that, for Winnie Byrne was enough.

She let her arthritic fingers rest, laying them, still wrapped around the knitting needles, in her lap. She closed her eyes, letting her imagination alone paint for her the burnished oranges and reds of the setting sun. As with everything else, she didn't need her eyes to see it.

It was night when she awoke, and she realised that she had dozed for far longer than she'd intended. The hills were black silhouettes against the navy sky, and the moon had risen, one of the biggest, creamiest moons that she could remember having ever seen. It reflected on the water as a stripe of white, a bright band of dappled light across the sea.

It was a night for lovers, she thought, remembering the times she had spent watching the moon with her husband, back in the days when their marriage was new... and it the days when it was not so new, too. All that was needed, Winnie thought, was a couple of lovers to make the moment perfect.

And then she saw them.

Like the gently rolling hills that framed the voe, they were black silhouettes, but she didn't need to see his features to recognise the man.

As she watched, Clark came to a halt, turned his back to her, and put his arm around his companion. Winnie had never met Lois, but Clark had spoken about her often enough for Winnie to guess that this was she. Winnie knew how to read body language, and who else would Clark lean so close to as they strolled along the sand?

Winnie watched as they stopped and turned to face the sea. She watched the way Clark wrapped his arm around Lois's shoulders, the way Lois allowed herself to be drawn into his embrace, the way she moulded herself against his side and leaned her head against his chest. Clark rested his cheek against her hair, and together they looked at the sky.

Winnie knew it was her imagination – there was no way she could hear them from this distance – but she fancied that she could hear them whisper sweet nothings to each other in the quiet of the night. Or maybe what she was hearing was the sound of her own memories, the words that her husband had spoken to her when they had strolled along the beach, looking at the moon, some seventy, sixty, fifty, forty or even thirty years before.

Then she saw the couple move in the intimate dance of lovers. Lois moved into Clark's arms, her face turned up towards his. He lowered his head and they kissed.

And then they floated, spiralling lazily in the still night, the lightness of their spirits making them lighter than air.

Winnie wondered why she wasn't surprised by the way the two lovers were drifting above the ground. Surely she should have been. Maybe it was because of her age. Maybe she was dreaming. Or maybe it was because she had always known that Clark was different. It was just that she had long since learned not to care about those differences. Whatever the reason, she felt neither shock or alarm at what they were doing.

Instead, Winnie thought about Arthur. She had never floated in his arms, but she didn't need to have done it to know how it felt. She remembered the way his arms had held her safe, the way his fingers had felt against her skin as he'd caressed her cheek in a prelude to their kisses, and the way his lips had felt against hers.

Down on the beach, Lois and Clark drifted slowly back down to earth. Clark took six steps backwards, looking as though he was being torn reluctantly out of Lois's arms.

Then he began to spin.

When he came to a stop seconds later, it took Winnie a moment or two to work out what precisely it was that she was seeing.

The way the cape fluttered behind him as he walked... the outline of his body where the costume hugged close to his flesh... There was only one man that this could be: Superman.

She watched, fascinated, as he walked towards Lois and then effortlessly swept her up into his arms. Lois wrapped her arms around Clark's neck and tucked her head under his chin.

He levitated a few feet off the ground for a few seconds, allowing them one last look at the moon, before he rocketed upwards, vanishing from Winnie's field of view.

Twenty years after they had first met, and long after all Winnie's questions had ceased to matter to her, Winnie Byrne finally had her answers.

Clark had no more come from the sea than she had. He had come from the sky.

*****

A stranger came to the funeral of Winnie Byrne, née Eunson, although it seemed to the rest of the family that he had been no stranger to her, nor she to him.

He stood quietly towards the back of the mourners, trying – and failing – not to draw attention to himself. He drew attention through the mere fact of his presence.

He was a good looking man, possessed of the kind of features that Jessi had swooned over as a teenager, back before she'd met blonde-haired, blue-eyed William and had fallen in love for real. The stranger had dark hair, dark eyes that were half-hidden behind wire-framed glasses, skin the colour of pale honey and straight white teeth that flashed brightly when he smiled. He didn't smile often, though, because to do so would not have been appropriate at a funeral.

After the service was over and the mourners began to disperse, the stranger edged forward diffidently and held out his hand to Jessi. "I'm Clark," he said. "We met once before. I think you were about eight at the time. Maybe you remember me?"

Jessi, momentarily distracted by her new daughter, Winifred, who chose that moment to begin to fret, shook her head automatically.

"Oh..." said Clark. Then he flashed a quick smile before ruthlessly suppressing it. "I'm sorry for your loss. She was a lovely person."

"Yes, she was."

Jessi plucked the baby out of her buggy and cuddled her into silence. Then she looked more carefully at Clark. Suddenly she remembered an afternoon long ago, back when she was a child. She remembered rain and wind and the man on the beach. She remembered sitting at the kitchen table in her great grandmother's house, entranced by the fabulous story he had spun about being shipwrecked and swimming for days across the storm-tossed North Sea.

Her mouth opened in a small "o" of belated recognition.

He was about to turn away when Jessi said, "Wait! I... I do remember you!"

After he had left, her great grandmother had advised Jessi not to believe a word of Clark's story; it had been just one more tall tale, like the tales of the selkie folk and the trows that Winnie herself told. Jessi, Winnie had warned her severely, was never to believe the glib lies that flowed from the mouth of a man from the sea.

Looking at him now, Jessi was sure her great grandmother had been right. His story of shipwreck and adventure had been nothing more than a nonsense created by his imagination. Except for the expensive suit, designer glasses and American accent, he was, Jessi decided, just an ordinary man.

But it didn't matter what he was. All that mattered was that he had cared enough to come, and that made Jessi think warmly of him. So, prompted by something more than politeness, Jessi invited him to join the rest of the mourners back at Winnie's house.

No. It was Grannanna's house no longer. It was Jessi's house now.

Jessi had missed the islands terribly once she'd moved away and her husband had never much liked his office job. So, after much discussion, they had decided, with the blessing of the rest of the family, to take over the croft. Their new life would be a struggle, Jessi knew, but they would manage somehow, just as Grannanna had done for all those years.

Jessi looked down little Winifred, who was now sleeping contentedly in her arms, and she knew with a certainly that she could never have explained that their decision to move was the right one. Little Winnie would be happier here than she could ever have been in Dundee.

Clark shook his head, murmured something about Jessi's kindness, and declined her invitation. "I have to be getting back," he said.

Jessi didn't think his excuse odd until later, when she realised that Clark hadn't had a car and that there were no buses running on a Sunday. It was as though the American had appeared out of nowhere and had vanished back the way he'd come.

Just as he had done, all those years before.

Clark was to remain a mystery, however, a mystery equalled only by an odd bequest Jessi's great grandmother had made in her will.

With one exception, Winnie Byrne, née Eunson, had left what little she owned to be divided up among her remaining family. The exception was a sum of one hundred pounds, payable to the Superman Foundation.


The End.