"Bertha," she said to her young companion, "come here, Bertha."
Bertha bent over her.
"Is it true that I am not going to get better?"
"You are very ill," said Bertha; "you ought to make your will."
"But I have made it: what do you mean?"
"I thought," said Bertha, "that"—she paused, then she said gravely: "you have not altered it since Maurice Trevor went away. I thought that you had made up your mind that he and Florence Aylmer were not to inherit your property."
"Of course I have," said the sick woman, a frightened, anxious look coming into her eyes. "Not that it much matters," she added, after a pause. "Florence is as good as another, and if Maurice really cares for her——"
"Oh, impossible," said Bertha; "you know you do not wish all your estates, your lands, your money, to pass into the hands of that wicked, deceitful girl."
"I have heard," said Mrs. Aylmer, still speaking in that gasping voice, "that Florence is doing great things for herself in London."
"What do you mean?"