he came at once to the
conclusion that Woodward's mind was burdened with something which
heavily depressed his spirits, and occupied his whole attention.

"Ah," exclaimed Barney, "the villain is brewing mischief for some one,
but I will watch his motions if I should pass sleepless nights for it.
He requires a sharp eye after him, and it will go hard with me or I
shall know what his midnight wanderings mean; but in the meantime I must
keep calm and quiet, and not seem to watch him."

Whilst Barney, who was unseen by Woodward, having been separated from
him by a fruit hedge over which he occasionally peeped, indulged in this
soliloquy, the latter, in the same deep and moody meditation, extended
his walk, his brows contracted, and dark as midnight.

"The damned hag," said he, speaking unconsciously aloud, "is this the
affection which she professed to bear me? Is this the proof she gives of
the preference which she often expressed for her favorite son? To leave
her property to that miserable milksop, my half-brother! What devil
could have tempted her to this? Not Lindsay, certainly, for I know he
would scorn to exercise any control over her in the disposition of her
property, and as for Maria, I know she would not. It must then have been
the milksop himself in some puling fit of pain or illness; and ably must
the beggarly knave have managed it when he succeeded in changing the
stern and flinty heart of such a she-devil. Yes, unquestionably that
must be the true meaning of it; but, be it so for the present; the
future is a different question. My plans are laid, and I will put them
into operation according as circumstances may guide me."

Whatever those plans were, he seemed to have completed them in his own
mind. The darkness departed from his brow; his face assumed its usual
expression; and, having satisfied himself by the contemplation of his
future course of action, he walked at his usual pace out of the garden.

"Egad," thought Barney, "I'm half a prophet, but I can say no more than
I've said. There's mischief in the wind; but whether against Masther
Charles or his mother, is a puzzle to me. What a dutiful son, too! A
she-devil! Well, upon my sowl, if he weren't her son I could forgive him
for that, because it hits her off to a hair--but from the lips of a son!
O, the blasted scoundrel! Well, no matther, there's a sharp pair of eyes
upon him; and that's all I can say at present."

When the medical attendant called