It seemed to him passing selfish in his wife to be so resigned to leaving life, and so oblivious of the fact that her income died with her, and that he was to be left out in the cold. One evening, however, when they were sitting alone together, this fact presented itself suddenly to her mind. "You will lose the Abbey House when I am gone, Conrad." "My love, do you think I could live in this house without you?" "And my income, Conrad; that dies with me, does it not?" "Yes, love." "That is hard for you." "I can bear that, Pamela, if I am to bear the loss of you." "Dearest love, you have always been disinterested. How could I ever doubt you? Perhaps--indeed I am sure--if I were to ask Violet, she would give you the fifteen hundred a year that I was to have had after she came of age." "Pamela, I could not accept any favour from your daughter. You would deeply offend me if you were to suggest such a thing." This was true. Much as he valued money, he would have rather starved than taken sixpence from the girl who had scorned him; the girl whose very presence gave rise to a terrible conflict in his breast--passionate love, bitterest antagonism. "There are the few things that I possess myself--jewels, books, furniture--special gifts of dear Edward's. Those are my own, to dispose of as I like. I might make a will leaving them to you, Conrad. They are trifles, but----" "They will be precious _souvenirs_ of our wedded life," murmured the Captain, who was very much of Mr. Wemmick's opinion, that portable property of any kind was worth having. A will was drawn up and executed next day, in which Mrs. Winstanley left her diamonds to her daughter, her wardrobe to the faithful and long-suffering Pauline--otherwise Mary Smith--and all the rest of her belongings to her dearly-beloved husband, Conrad Winstanley. The Captain was a sufficient man of business to take care that this will was properly executed. In all this time his daily intercourse with Violet was a source of exceeding bitterness. She was civil, and even friendly in her manner to him--for her mother's sake. And then, in the completeness of her union with Rorie, she could afford to be generous and forgiving. The old spirit of antagonism died out: her foe was so utterly fallen. A few weeks and the old home would be her own--the old servants would come back, the old pensioners might gather again around the kitchen-door. All could be once more as it had been in her father's lifetime; and no trace of Conrad Winstanley's existence would be left; for, alas! it was now an acknowledged fact that Violet's mother was dying. The most sanguine among her friends had ceased to hope. She herself was utterly resigned. She spent some part of each day in gentle religious exercises with kindly Mr. Scobel. Her last hours were as calm and reasonable as those of Socrates.