These arrangements had been made when Colin arrived; and therefore the difficulties in which he expected to find Fanny were entirely obviated. But there was another and a far more dreadful subject to engage his attention, which he could not possibly have anticipated, namely, the communication made by the dying man respecting her father, and the horrible scene which she had witnessed at the time that communication was made. Partly from a conscientious fear of doing any one an injustice, and partly from doubt whether, after all, the doctor really was or was not guilty, she had not hitherto mentioned the subject to any one, though it lay on her mind like a burden which would allow no rest until it was shaken off. If the lawyer had spoken truth, was it not unjust to his memory to make no use of what he had spoken? And if she really had a father living, and that father was confined in a madhouse, what could she think of herself were she not to make an effort for his deliverance? On his arrival, Colin thought Fanny looked ill and anxious; and that she spoke less freely to him than heretofore. He felt surprised to hear her allude to Doctor Rowel in a manner so changed from that in which she had always spoken of him formerly. Then it was as a friend, a helper; one from whom, above all others living, she had the most to hope from, and to whom she ought to feel most grateful. But now she mentioned the very name with dread, and seemed to shudder whenever the recollection of his presence in that house came across her mind. All this raised Colin's curiosity, and stimulated his inquiries. Question after question did he put to her, until the vivid recollection of the scene that had passed, and the keener sense of her father's situation, which this conversation awakened, brought her again to tears, and amidst many sobs and interruptions she at last related to the horror-stricken youth the whole story of her late master's death-bed communication. During the recital Colin turned pale as ashes; and when it was done, “I'm sure he murdered him!” he exclaimed, “and we shall find it all true about your father. Think as you like about it, but that doctor tried to stop his mouth only to prevent him telling you. Take him at his word, Fanny, and let him show you over his house.” Fanny made no reply. She scarcely heard his words, for in imagination she fancied herself before the little cell that held her father; she thought of him as a madman whom she dared not touch, and scarcely even look at; one who, though her own parent, had not sense enough left to talk even like a little child. And as she thus thought, the tears silently but rapidly rolled down her cheeks. She longed for the time to arrive, but dreaded the trial to which it might expose her.