had therefore no desire to offend her father; "but I am sure that in
your calmer moments you will admit that the work to which your son-in-law
has devoted the bulk of his accumulations is a noble one. For ages to
come the sick and the suffering among our townsfolk will bless the name
of Whitelaw. There is a touching reflection for you, Mr. Carley! And
really now, your amiable daughter, with an income of two hundred per
annum--to say nothing of that reversion which must fall in to her
by-and-by on Mrs. Tadman's decease--is left in a very fair position. I
should not have consented to draw up that will, sir, if I had considered
it an unjust one."

"Then there's a wide difference between your notion of justice and mine,"
growled the bailiff; who thereupon relapsed into grim silence, feeling
that complaint was useless. He could no more alter the conditions of Mr.
Whitelaw's will than he could bring Mr. Whitelaw back to life--and that
last operation was one which he was by no means eager to perform.

Ellen herself felt no disappointment; she fancied, indeed, that her
husband, whom she had never deceived by any pretence of affection, had
behaved with sufficient generosity towards her. Two hundred a year seemed
a large income to her. It would give her perfect independence, and the
power to help others, if need were.

CHAPTER XLVII.

CLOSING SCENES.

It was not until the day of her husband's funeral that Ellen Whitelaw
wrote to Mr. Fenton to tell him what had happened. She knew that her
letter was likely to bring him post-haste to the Grange, and she wished
his coming to be deferred until that last dismal day was over. Nor was
she sorry that there should be some little pause--a brief interval of
ignorance and tranquillity--in Marian's life before she heard of her
husband's useless voyage across the Atlantic. She was in sad need of rest
of mind and body, and even in those few days gained considerable
strength, by the aid of Mrs. Whitelaw's tender nursing. She had not left
her room during the time that death was in the darkened house, and it was
only on the morning after the funeral that she came downstairs for the
first time. Her appearance had improved wonderfully in that interval of
little more than a week. Her eyes had lost their dim weary look, the
deathly pallor of her complexion had given place to a faint bloom. But
grateful as she was for her own deliverance, she was full of anxiety
about her husband. Ellen W