And his daughter’s dangerous illness was not the little man’s only anxiety. Part of his great fortune was also in a very dangerous condition. The panic in Australia was spreading, and though he bore a stout heart and refused to sell--indeed, it was impossible to dispose of much of his stock--yet he never knew the hour or day when he might not find himself a comparatively poor man. As soon as Madeline was better and fit to move he would go to Sydney, and look after his own affairs. Meanwhile he began to retrench; he withdrew his commission for the lease of a moor, for a diamond and emerald _parure_; he put down all his horses but two; and he placed the Belgrave mansion on the market. The house was too large to be comfortable, and the sanitary arrangements were apparently unsafe. As soon as the invalid was pronounced fit to move she was taken to Brighton, where, there being no risk of infection, Mr. and Miss West and suite were comfortably established in one of the best hotels, and at first the invalid made tolerable progress towards recovery. By the 1st of September she was permitted to go out in a bath-chair, or even to take a short drive daily. All who saw her agreed that her illness had told upon her most terribly. Her colour had departed, her eyes and cheeks were hollow; her beauty was indeed a faded flower--a thing of the past! CHAPTER XXXIX. WHITE FLOWERS. As soon as practicable Madeline stole a visit to Mrs. Holt, Mr. West having much business of importance in London. “I have been ill,” she gasped as she tottered into the familiar kitchen, “or I would have come back long ago.” “So you have, I declare. Dear heart alive! and aged by years, and just skin and bone. Sit down, sit down,” dragging forward a chair and feeling for the keys, with a view to a glass of wine for Mrs. Wynne, who looked like fainting. “No, no. Never mind; I can’t stay. But tell me where it is, Mrs. Holt--where have they buried him?” “No, no. Now sit you down,” enforcing her request with her hand. “Mr. Wynne was thinking of burying him with his own people in Kent; but it was too far away, so he is laid in Monks Norton, with a lovely stone over him. I’ve been there,” and then she proceeded to give the unhappy mother a minute description of the funeral, the coffin with silver plates, and a full account of the last resting-place, keeping all the while an angry and incredulous eye on her visitor’s coloured dress. “You are not in black, I see,” looking at her own new black merino with some complacency. “No, Mrs. Holt; I--I never thought of it, if you will believe me. My head was full of other things and my heart too sore; but I will wear mourning outwardly, as I wear it in my soul, and--heart--to the end of my days.” “Well, I do wonder as you never thought of a bit of black,” sniffed the other, incredulously. “’Tis mostly the first thing!”