He fell ill; poor old man! No one knew
exactly what was the matter with him. The
doctors were at fault and drugged him with
every kind of abomination, some of which, at
least, must have been wrong, if others were
right. But no drugs would have saved him
now; not the best nor most skilfully
administered. At his age, the terrible revolution
worked by such a crushing sorrow as
this was beyond the reach of doctor's stuff.
His heart was broken. He had an illness
of two months or more; a slow, sure
sickness that never fluctuated, but day by
day certainly dragged him nearer to the
grave. He knew that he was dying, but
he never mentioned his son. It was his
bitterest reflection to feel that the gambler's
calculation had been lucky, and that his death
would shamefully enrich him.

Magdalen hardly ever left him. Nothing
could exceed the devotion, the tenderness,
with which she nursed him. If love could
have saved him he had not died while she
had been with him! She had the rare power
of embellishing a sick-room—making it rather
a beautiful cradle of weakness than the ante-
chamber to the grim tomb: that power
which comes only by a woman's love. The
friends who came to see them remarked on
that exquisite order and the melancholy
beauty she had given; and many of them
said that Miss Trevelyan had changed her
father's sick-bed into a throne. The old man
appreciated her now for the first time. He
had never loved her as he had loved his son;
indeed, he never loved her much at all. She
had been born after that terrible night—
which no one but himself and his God knew
of— when his wife's dreamy lips, Francesca-
like, muttered the secret kept for so many
painful years, and told him that she had
never loved him. Magdalen had always
seemed to him to be the ratification of his
despair, as Andrew had been the fulfilment of
his hope; and it was only now, for the first
time in life, that he acknowledged he had
been unjust. The poor girl had felt the
difference made between them both, but she
believed it arose from some fault in herself.
She knew there was but little virtue in
Andrew. Now she had taken her true position
in her father's love, and had become
really dear to him. Before, he had been
coldly proud of her beauty, and he had
respected her character; but he had never
loved her. Since his illness it was different.
He was only happy when she was sitting
at the foot of the bed where he could see her.
—only easy when she was in the room and
before his eyes. Once she heard him say,
"Blind! blind! " and "Avenged! " while
looking at his son's portrait, hanging against
the wall just above her head, as she stood
by the table. Blind! yes, as too many of us
are blind, both in our loves and our
misappreciations.

At last he died. He had been sinking
rapidly for some time, but still his death was
sudden at the very last. Magdalen was alone
with him. She had given him his medicine,
and had just shaken up his pillows and
smoothed the coverlet, when she saw his
countenance change. She went closer to him
and asked him if he wanted anything; she
thought he was feeling faint, perhaps. His
lip slightly moved, but she heard no sound
issue from it; his eyes grew fixed, and that
terrible film came over them; she raised his
head, again he slightly smiled;—a sigh: and
then she was alone.

Andrew did not know of his father's
illness. More than once Magdalen had
entreated her father to allow her to write to
him, but he used to answer, "No, my love,
not yet—not till I give you leave," in a tone
and manner so distinct and positive, that
she felt nothing more was to be said. And
in his state of weakness she was careful
to be obedient to the utmost, fearing that he
should think her undutiful because he was
unable to be authoritative. So the old man
had sickened and died in peace; and Magdalen
was not sorry that his death-bed had been
undisturbed by the mockery of her brother's
pretended love. But when she was left alone
she wrote hastily to Andrew, telling him
what had happened, saying that her father
would not allow her to write to him to
inform him of his illness, but that now he
was the head of the family, and must take
everything on himself; begging him at the
end of her letter to come down immediately
and manage all as he liked. Andrew gave a
long whistle; "What! " he said, "gone so
soon! That little jade! if she had only told
me he was ill, I could have got ten per cent,
more. I'll pay her out for this! We'll
see who will be master and who mistress,
when I've got things into my own hands!
However, I can't go down to-night, so they
may muddle away by themselves as they
like."

The reason why he could not go down that
night was, that he had made up a whist-party
with cards so cleverly marked that no one
could detect them; and as he expected to
clear nearly a hundred pounds by this coup,
he was not disposed to lose such a good
chance because his father was lying dead at
home, and his sister did not like to be
alone.

He wrote, however, a few lines expressing
his surprise at the news; not a word of grief;
he had no need now to continue that farce;
and authorising her to begin all the necessary
arrangements, as his agent, saying that he
would go down to-morrow, take possession,
read the will, and see that the funeral was
properly conducted. Properly, but with STRICT
economy and simplicity, said careful
Andrew,—the word strict being underlined
twice. All this seemed very natural to
Magdalen. Bad as it was, she expected nothing
better. And as for his certainties about his