"Done, my dear fellow? nothing very much. This is not morphia; it is
sulphate of quinine."




CHAPTER XIV.


In the morning Jane Morton prepared to meet Mrs. Brenton, and make her
confession. She called at the Brenton residence, but found it closed,
as it had been ever since the tragedy of Christmas morning. It took her
some time to discover the whereabouts of Mrs. Brenton, who, since the
murder, had resided with a friend except while under arrest.

For a moment Mrs. Brenton did not recognize the thin and pale woman who
stood before her in a state of such extreme nervous agitation, that it
seemed as if at any moment she might break down and cry.

"I don't suppose you'll remember me, ma'am," began the girl, "but I
worked for you two weeks before--before----"

"Oh yes," said Mrs. Brenton, "I remember you now. Have you been ill? You
look quite worn and pale, and very different from what you did the last
time I saw you."

"Yes," said the girl, "I believe I have been ill.".

"You _believe_; aren't you sure?"