Some time that evening Markworth had a long conversation with Miss Kingscott, preparing for "the end." Both--strange anomaly!--had worked together for once, and not for good. He gave her a hundred pounds, the first instalment of the "hush money," and their compact was nearly completed. To one who had not marked out every phase in Susan Hartshorne's treatment, the change that had been worked in her since Markworth had devoted his energies to her care, was nothing less than marvellous. From dull, irksome melancholia the patient had been transported to the fields of reason. A constantly unchanged vacuity of expression on her face had given place to mobility of feature. Instead of void animal eyes, the windows of the soul now looked out of her face. From an idiot she had been changed nearly if not quite into a reasoning being. Markworth had done all this, aided by Miss Kingscott acting under him and by his directions. It is true the girl had only got back the germ of reason, the reason of a child in nature, and measured by the experience of years. But it was a germ which, although now of delicate growth, and requiring every fostering and care, might yet expand into the fullness of moral culture. No one had any idea how poor Susan had improved, for she saw no one to speak to as yet; and although Tom and Mrs Hartshorne noticed some change in her, yet the former was too much engaged with observing another to notice much in his sister, and as for the mother she really, I believe, did not care either way. She had so long looked upon Susan as insane, that the possibility of her ever recovering her reason now after the lapse of so many years, was put beyond the pale of consideration altogether. And so only Markworth and Miss Kingscott knew of her dawning reason; with them both she spoke now as sensibly as themselves, and as to Markworth she was his abject slave. The first reasoning thought that filled the poor girl's vacuous brain was one of heartfelt devotion to him who had led her out of darkness to light. She looked upon him as her saviour, ignorant as she was of a higher and more powerful God than he; and he was so uniformly kind and considerate to her, seemingly anticipating her every wish, that one cannot wonder at her slavish idolatry. He was her god--her all; she loved him as a dog would love its master, and everything he did was right: his word, law. Markworth's material was now plastic enough. Volume 1, Chapter XIII. BROTHER AND SISTER. "Now, Lizzie, I want to know what all this means?" said the Reverend Herbert Pringle, B.A., putting on quite a fatherly dignity of manner to his sister, an evening or two after Lady Inskip had spoken to him. "I want to know what all this means."