“Sal Rawlins,” went on the barrister, without noticing the interruption, “has evidently never given a thought to her father or mother, as the old hag, no doubt, swore they were dead.  So I think it will be best to keep silent—­that is, if no money is left to her, and, as her father thought her dead, I don’t think there will be any.  In that case, it would be best to settle an income on her.  You can easily find a pretext, and let the matter rest.”

“But suppose, in accordance with the wording of the will, she is entitled to all the money?”

“In that case,” said Calton, gravely, “there is only one course open—­she must be told everything, and the dividing of the money left to her generosity.  But I don’t think you need be alarmed, I’m pretty sure Madge is the heiress.”

“It’s not the money I think about,” said Brian, hastily.  “I’d take Madge without a penny.”

“My boy,” said the barrister, placing his hand kindly on Brian’s shoulder, “when you marry Madge Frettlby, you will get what is better than money—­a heart of gold.”

CHAPTER XXXII.

DE MORTUIS NIL NISI BONUM.

“Nothing is certain but the unforeseen;” so says a French proverb, and judging from the unexpected things which daily happen to us, it is without doubt a very true one.  If anyone had told Madge Frettlby one day that she would be stretched on a bed of sickness the next, and would be quite oblivious of the world and its doings, she would have laughed the prophet to scorn.  Yet it was so, and she was tossing and turning on a bed of pain to which the couch of Procustes was one of roses.  Sal sat beside her, ever watchful of her wants, and listened through the bright hours of the day, or the still ones of the night, to the wild and incoherent words which issued from her lips.  She incessantly called on her father to save himself, and then would talk about Brian, and sing snatches of song, or would sob broken sentences about her dead mother, until the heart of the listener ached to hear her.  No one was allowed into the room except Sal, and when Dr. Chinston heard the things she was saying, although used to such cases, he recoiled.

“There is blood on your hands,” cried Madge, sitting up in bed, with her hair all tangled and falling over her shoulders; “red blood, and you cannot wash it off.  Oh, Cain!  God save him!  Brian, you are not guilty; my father killed him.  God!  God!” and she fell back on her disordered pillows weeping bitterly.

Dr. Chinston did not say anything, but shortly afterwards took his leave, after telling Sal on no account to let anyone see the patient.

“’Tain’t likely,” said Sal, in a disgusted tone, as she closed the door after him.  “I’m not a viper to sting the bosom as fed me,” from which it may be gathered she was advancing rapidly in her education.