Another fortnight went by, and then, towards the close of September, came the end of all things in this world for poor Tom Mackenzie. He died in the middle of the night in his wife's arms, while his sister stood by holding both their hands. Since the day on which he had endeavoured to arrange a match between his partner and his sister he had spoken no word of business, at any rate to the latter, and things now stood on that footing which she had then attempted to give them. We all know how silent on such matters are the voices of all in the bereft household, from the hour of death till that other hour in which the body is consigned to its kindred dust. Women make mourning, and men creep about listlessly, but during those few sad days there may be no talk about money. So it was in Gower Street. The widow, no doubt, thought much of her bitter state of dependence, thought something, perhaps, of the chance there might be that her husband's sister would be less good than her word, now that he was gone--meditated with what amount of submission she must accept the generosity of the woman she had always hated; but she was still mistress of that house till the undertakers had done their work; and till that work had been done, she said little of her future plans. "I'd earn my bread, if I knew how," she began, putting her handkerchief up to her eyes, on the afternoon of the very day on which he was buried. "There will be no occasion for that, Sarah," said Miss Mackenzie, "there will be enough for us all." "But I would if I knew how. I wouldn't mind what I did; I'd scour floors rather than be dependent, I've that spirit in me; and I've worked, and moiled, and toiled with those children; so I have." Miss Mackenzie then told her that she had solemnly promised her brother to divide her income with his widow, and informed her that she intended to see Mr Slow, the lawyer, on the following day, with reference to the doing of this. "If there is anything from the factory, that can be divided too," said Miss Mackenzie. "But there won't. The Rubbs will take all that; of course they will. And Tom put into it near upon ten thousand pounds!" Then she began to cry again, but soon interrupted her tears to ask what was to become of Susanna. Susanna, who was by, looked anxiously up into her aunt's eyes. "Susanna and I," said the aunt, "have thrown in our lot together, and we mean to remain so; don't we, dear?" "If mamma will let me." "I'm sure it's very good of you to take one off my hands," said the mother, "for even one will be felt."