shed.

'Yes, angry.' She walked to the window, and, twitching at the
blind-cord, gazed into the dim street. It was beginning to grow dark.
'Shall you fetch the lawyer? I shouldn't if I were you. I won't.'

'I must fetch him,' Mark said.

She turned round and admired him. 'What _will_ he do with his precious
money?' she murmured.

'Leave it to you, probably.'

'Not he. I wouldn't touch it--not now; it's yours by rights. Perhaps you
don't know that when I came here it was distinctly understood I wasn't
to expect anything under his will. Besides, I have my own money ... Oh
dear! If he wasn't in such pain, wouldn't I talk to him--for the first
and last time in my life!'

'You must please not say a word to him. I don't really want the money.'

'But you ought to have it. If he takes it away from you he's _unjust_.'

'What did the doctor say this afternoon?' asked Mark, wishing to change
the subject.

'He said the crisis would come on Monday, and when it did Edward would
be dead all in a minute. He said it would be just like taking prussic
acid.'

'Not earlier than Monday?'

'He said he thought Monday.'

'Of course I shall take no notice of what Edward said to me--I shall
call to-morrow morning--and stay. Perhaps he won't mind seeing me. And
then you can tell me what happens to-night.'

'I'm sure I shall send that lawyer man about his business,' she
threatened.

'Look here,' said Mark timorously as he was leaving the house, 'I've
told you I don't want the money--I would give it away to some charity;
but do you think I ought to pretend to yield, just to humour him, and
let him die quiet and peaceful? I shouldn't like him to die hating----'

'Never--never!' she exclaimed.

* * * * *

'What have you and Mark been talking about?' asked Edward Beechinor
apprehensively as Mary re-entered the bedroom.

'Nothing,' she replied with a grave and soothing kindliness of tone.

'Because, miss, if you think----'

'You must have your medicine now, Edward.'

But before giving the patient his medicine she peeped through the
curtain and watched Mark's figure till it disappeared up the hill
towards Bleakridge. He, on his part, walked with her image always in
front of him. He thought hers was the strongest, most righteous soul he
had ever encountered; it seemed as if she had a perfect passion for
truth and justice. And a week ago he had deemed her a capable girl,
certainly--but lackadaisic