“No; and I am not sure that it would be good to save her life, she has suffered so cruelly. What a wicked old man Sir William Rammage was!” she burst out, and looked up sympathetically at Mr. Boughton. “He was my client,” the lawyer urged. “He allowed the poor old lady to starve for want of money, and now that he is dead and she is dying it comes to her.” “Yes, it is very unfortunate—very unfortunate.” “Everything seems to be a point of view,” Mrs. North went on, in the eager manner which so often characterized her. “Poverty is the point of view from which we look at the riches we cannot get; from vice we look at virtue which we cannot attain; from hell we look at the heaven we cannot reach. Perhaps Sir William Rammage would appreciate the latter part of the remark now”—she said the last words between laughter and tears. “My dear madam,” Mr. Boughton exclaimed, in rather a shocked voice, “pray don’t let us begin a discussion. To go back to Mrs. Baines, I think if I could see her——” “It is quite impossible; you would remind her of your horrible nephew, and that would kill her.” “What on earth has she got to do with my nephew?”—and this time his manner convinced Mrs. North that he was not an impostor. “Mr. Boughton,” she said gravely, “the old lady is very, very ill. The doctor says she cannot live, and I fear that the sight of you would kill her straight off; but, if you like, I will go and sound her, and find out if she is strong enough to bear a visit from you”—and, the lawyer having agreed to this, Mrs. North went upstairs. “Dearest old lady”—her girlish voice had always a tender note in it when she spoke to Aunt Anne—“I have some good news for you—very good news. Do you think you could bear to hear it?” “Yes, my love,” Aunt Anne answered wheezily, “but you must forgive me if I am sceptical as to its goodness.” Mrs. North knelt down by the bedside, and stroked the thin hands. “Mr. Boughton is downstairs; he has come to tell you that Sir William Rammage is dead.” “Then it is true,” Mrs. Baines said sadly. “Poor William! My dear, we once lay in the same cradle together, while our mothers watched beside it—what does Mr. Boughton say about Alfred?” “He doesn’t appear to know anything about his wickedness.” “I felt sure he did not; I never believed in the depravity of human nature.” “Then how would you account for Mr. Wimple?” she asked, with much interest. The old lady considered for a moment. “Perhaps he was my punishment for all I did in the past. I have thought that lately, and tried to bear it—only it is more than I can bear. It has humiliated me too much. Tell me why Mr. Boughton has come; is it anything about Alfred?” “Nothing,” was the emphatic answer; “and if you see him I advise you not to mention Mr. Wimple’s name.”