“The damned hag,” said he, speaking unconsciously aloud, “is this the affection which she professed to bear me?  Is this the proof she gives of the preference which she often expressed for her favorite son?  To leave her property to that miserable milksop, my half-brother!  What devil could have tempted her to this?  Not Lindsay, certainly, for I know he would scorn to exercise any control over her in the disposition of her property, and as for Maria, I know she would not.  It must then have been the milksop himself in some puling fit of pain or illness; and ably must the beggarly knave have managed it when he succeeded in changing the stern and flinty heart of such a she-devil.  Yes, unquestionably that must be the true meaning of it; but, be it so for the present; the future is a different question.  My plans are laid, and I will put them into operation according as circumstances may guide me.”

Whatever those plans were, he seemed to have completed them in his own mind.  The darkness departed from his brow; his face assumed its usual expression; and, having satisfied himself by the contemplation of his future course of action, he walked at his usual pace out of the garden.

“Egad,” thought Barney, “I’m half a prophet, but I can say no more than I’ve said.  There’s mischief in the wind; but whether against Masther Charles or his mother, is a puzzle to me.  What a dutiful son, too!  A she-devil!  Well, upon my sowl, if he weren’t her son I could forgive him for that, because it hits her off to a hair—­but from the lips of a son!  O, the blasted scoundrel!  Well, no matther, there’s a sharp pair of eyes upon him; and that’s all I can say at present.”

When the medical attendant called that day to see his patient he found, on examining Charles, and feeling his pulse, that he was decidedly and rapidly on the recovery.  On his way down stairs he was met by Woodward, who said,

“Well, doctor, is there any chance of my dear brother’s recovery?”

“It is beyond a chance now, Mr. Wood-ward; he is out of danger; and although his convalescence will be slow, it will be sure.”

“Thank God,” said the cold-blooded hypocrite; “I have never heard intelligence more gratifying.  My mother is in the withdrawing-room, and desired me to say that she wishes to speak with you.  Of course it is about my brother; and I am glad that you can make so favorable a report of him.”

On going down he found Mrs. Lindsay alone, and having taken a seat and made his daily report, she addressed him as follows: 

“Doctor, you have taken a great weight off my mind by your account of my son’s certain recovery.”

“I can say with confidence, as I have already said to his anxious brother, madam, that it is certain, although it will be slow.  He is out of danger at last.  The wound is beginning to cicatrize, and generates laudable pus.  His fever, too, is gone; but he is very weak still,—­quite emaciated,—­and it will require time to place him once more on his legs.  Still, the great fact is, that his recovery is certain.  Nothing unless agitation of mind can retard it; and I do not see anything which can occasion that.”