And when he was at rest, under the walls of the old grey church, Madeline, as a widow, would be as much her father’s heiress and housekeeper as if she had never been a wife. In fact, her days of misfortune would enhance her domestic worth, at least she had learnt the value of money! As for himself, he was reduced to such a low ebb, mentally and physically, that death would be a release. To return to life--with a capital L--and to take up his heavy load, and plod on and on like an omnibus horse, was not an alluring prospect. Madeline’s future was safe, and he would rather be under the green sod, with all the dead and gone Wynnes--when, after life’s fitful fever, they slept well. It will be seen from this that Mr. Wynne was in a bad way--too weak, too hopeless, even to care to struggle back to health. But Madeline had now sufficient energy for two. Hope pervaded her young veins, decision and prompt action were its outcome, and money was power. In the first place, she scribbled a hasty note to Mr. Jessop, and begged him to call on them that evening without fail. This she despatched by a little boy, paying a precious sixpence to save time. Then she descended like a whirlwind upon Mrs. Kane, and begged to see her for a moment alone. She had made a bold resolve--there was no alternative. She was about to take Mrs. Kane--the insolent, the red-faced, the incredulous--into her confidence. She had Hobson’s choice, and, in fact, was at her wits’ end. Supposing inquiries were made, supposing Mrs. Harper wrote and asked awkward questions, and who so ready to answer them--unless previously prepared, previously bribed, previously flattered, by being let into the secret--as Mrs. Kane? “Mrs. Kane,” said Madeline, knocking at that lady’s door, the door of her own sanctum, “I have something to say to you in private.” “Bless me, Mrs. Wynne, how white your face is!” exclaimed the other tartly, having been just about to sit down to her supper--tripe and bottled stout. “Whatever is the matter _now_? Not the bailiffs--that I do hope.” “No, no, no; quite the contrary.” Then, struck by a happy thought, “How much do we owe you, Mrs. Kane?” “Ah, owe me!” rather staggered. “Let’s see, thirteen weeks, at ten shillings, is six pounds ten; then the coal----Here,” making a raid on a rickety writing-table, “I have it all down,” searching among some papers. “Yes, here it is. Coal, one pound one, kindling wood, matches, postage on a parcel--total, eight pounds, thirteen and sevenpence-halfpenny. Are you going to settle it?” she asked briskly. “Yes, I am,” replied Madeline, now drawing out her full, her overflowing purse. What courage, what confidence were conferred by the very feel of its contents! Mrs. Kane gazed at it with eyes as distended as those of a bull frog, and with her mouth half-open. “A ten-pound note, Mrs. Kane.” And Mrs. Wynne tendered one as she spoke.