Mr Wodehouse had scarcely
reached old age; he was well off, and only a week ago seemed to have so
much to enjoy; now, here he lay stupefied, on the edge of the grave,
unable to respond even by a look to the love that surrounded him. Once
more there rose in the heart of the young priest a natural impulse of
resentment and indignation; and when he thought of the cause of this
change, he remembered Wodehouse's threat, and roused himself from his
contemplation of the dying to think of the probable fate of those who
must live.

"Has he made his will?" said Mr Wentworth, suddenly. He forgot that it
was Lucy who was standing by him; and it was only when he caught a
glance of reproach and horror from her eyes that he recollected how
abrupt his question was. "Pardon me," he said; "you think me heartless
to speak of it at such a time; but tell me, if you know: Miss
Wodehouse, has he made his will?"

"Oh, Mr Wentworth, I don't know anything about business," said the
elder sister. "He said he would; but we have had other things to think
of--more important things," said poor Miss Wodehouse, wringing her
hands, and looking at Mr Wentworth with eyes full of warning and
meaning, beseeching him not to betray her secret. She came nearer to
the side of the bed on which Lucy and the Curate were standing, and
plucked at his sleeve in her anxiety. "We have had very different
things to think of. Oh, Mr Wentworth, what does it matter?" said the
poor lady, interposing her anxious looks, which suggested every kind
of misfortune, between the two.

"It matters everything in the world," said Mr Wentworth. "Pardon me if
I wound you--I must speak; if it is possible to rouse him, an effort
must be made. Send for Mr Waters. He must not be allowed to go out of
the world and leave your interests in the hands of--"

"Oh, hush, Mr Wentworth, hush!--oh, hush, hush! Don't say any more,"
cried Miss Wodehouse, grasping his arm in her terror.

Lucy rose from where she had been sitting at the bedside. She had
grown paler than before, and looked almost stern in her youthful
gravity. "I will not permit my father to be disturbed," she said. "I
don't know what you mean, or what you are talking of; but he is not to
be disturbed. Do you think I will let him be vexed in his last hours
about money or anybody's interest?" she said, turning upon the Curate
a momentary glance of scorn. Then she sat down again, with a pang of
disappointment added to her grief. She co