The convalescent, in spite of eloquent expostulations, returned to her favourite menu of spiced meats, rich _entrées_, champagne, and caviare, and boastfully assured her adopted daughter that "she was the best judge of her own health. London doctors were quacks and alarmists, and all she required was a complete change; a couple of weeks at Brighton would transform her into another woman." Madame was self-willed and strong. For twenty-three years no one had ventured to oppose her, and for some little time her own prescription--to eat and drink and make merry--seemed unexpectedly efficacious. One afternoon, after enjoying a hearty lunch on prawn curry (with hot condiments), roast hare, plum cake, and bottled stout, she sat down to write to a house agent, and when in the act of signing her name, was seized with an apoplectic fit, and before a doctor could be summoned, became insensible, never recovered consciousness, and died that night. Thus Madame de Godez had experienced a change, and one that she little anticipated--the great change of all. There was the usual amount of startled confusion succeeding a sudden death. Verona was shocked and grief-stricken; all Madame's little peculiarities were forgotten, her good qualities remembered, as she gazed through her tears on the still, dark face, contrasting so sharply with the sheets and pillows, and clothed in all the dignity of death. Mr. Middlemass, a wooden-faced family lawyer, was soon on the spot, and undertook all correspondence and funeral arrangements. Verona's good friend, Mrs. Melville, hurried up to town at once, in order to be with her, and she proved a comfort and tower of strength. Soon after her arrival Mrs. Melville had a long conversation with Mr. Middlemass, who said to her with alarming gravity: "I am sorry to inform you that Madame de Godez has not signed her will." "Oh!" exclaimed the lady, rather blankly. "Has she not?" "No. I have urged her repeatedly to settle her affairs, in common justice to Miss Chandos. She intended her to succeed to almost all she possessed. I have drawn up her instructions. This is the fourth will I have executed; the former three she destroyed. I had it prepared and ready for her signature, but she postponed the appointment, day after day, and now"--throwing out his hands--"she is gone----" "Then it will make a great difference to Miss Chandos?" "The greatest in the world. If the will had been duly signed--just two words written--Miss Chandos would come in for fifteen thousand a year--she would be an heiress. Now she is, I may say, penniless. It's one of the worst cases of procrastination I've ever known." "And what becomes of all the money?" asked Mrs. Melville. "It goes to the next-of-kin--the Gowdys. They can claim everything, under Mr. Gowdy's will, which states that, if his wife died intestate, his fortune was to go to his brother and his children, the heirs at law." "And who are they?" she inquired, after a pause.