CHAPTER IX.

THE DOCTOR'S VERDICT.

It was just about this time that Squire Denison, dining alone, was taken ill at the dinner-table. Very rarely indeed was Ella out at that hour, but it chanced that she had gone to spend a long evening with Lady Cleeve. The Squire's symptoms looked alarming to Aaron Stone and his wife; and the young man, Hubert, went off on horseback to Nullington, to summon Dr. Spreckley.

The Doctor had practised in Nullington all his life. He was a man of sixty now, with a fine florid complexion; he was said to be a lover of good cheer and to have a weakness for the whisky bottle; though nobody ever saw him the worse for what he had taken. He had a cheerful, hearty way with him, that to many people was better than all his physic, seeming to think that most of the ills of life could be laughed away if his patients would only laugh heartily enough. Mr. Denison had great confidence in him; and no wonder, seeing that he had attended him for twenty years. Dr. Spreckley was not merely the Squire's medical attendant, but news-purveyor-in-general to him as well. Now that the Squire got out so little himself and saw so few visitors at the Hall, he looked to Spreckley to keep him _au courant_ with all the gossip anent mutual acquaintances and all the local doings for a dozen miles round; and Spreckley was quite equal to the demands upon him. During the past year or two Mr. Denison had experienced several of the sudden attacks; but none of so violent a nature as was the one this evening. Dr. Spreckley's cheerful face changed when he saw the symptoms, and the look, momentary though it was, was not lost on the sick man.

"Where's Miss Winter?" asked the Doctor, somewhat surprised at her absence.

"Miss Ella's gone to Lady Cleeve's for the evening, sir," answered Mrs. Stone, who was in attendance.

"And a good thing too," put in the Squire, rousing himself. "Look here--I won't have her told I've been ill. Do you hear--all of you? No good to worry the lassie."

Dr. Spreckley administered certain remedies, saw the Squire safely into bed, and stayed with him for a couple of hours afterwards, Aaron supplying him with a small decanter of whisky. The symptoms were already disappearing, and Dr. Spreckley's face was hopeful.

"You'll be all right, Squire, after a good night's rest," said he, with all his hearty cheerfulness. "I'll be over by ten o'clock in the morning."

When Ella returned, as she did at nine o'clock, nothing was told her. "The master felt tired, and so went to bed betimes," was all Mrs. Stone said. And Ella suspected nothing.

While she was breakfasting the next morning--her uncle sometimes took his alone in his room--Aaron came to her, and said the master wanted her. Ella hastened to him.

"Why! are you in bed, uncle dear?" she exclaimed.

"One of my lazy fits--that's all; thought I'd have breakfast before I got up. Why not? Got a mind for a walk this fine morning, dearie?"

"Yes, uncle, if you wish me to go anywhere. It is a beautiful morning."

"So, so! one should get out this fine weather when one can: wish my legs were as young to get over the ground as they used to be. I want you to go to the vicarage, child, and take a letter to Kettle that I've had here these few days. It's about the votes for the Incurables, and it's time it was attended to. Tell him he must see to it for me and fill it up. Mind you are with him before ten o'clock, and then he'll not be gone out."

"Yes, uncle. I will be sure to go."

"And look here, lassie," added the Squire; "if you like to stay the morning with Maria, you can. I shan't want you; I shall be pottering about here half the day."

Having thus got rid of his niece, the coast was clear for Dr. Spreckley. True to his time, the Doctor drove up in his ramshackle old gig.

"You are better this morning; considerably better," he said to his patient after a quiet examination. "That was a nasty attack, and I hope we shan't have any more of them for a long time to come."

"I was worse, Doctor, than even you knew of," said Mr. Denison. "The wind of the grave blew colder on me yesterday evening than it has ever blown before. Another such bout, and out I shall go, like the snuff of a candle. Eh, now, come?"

"We must hope that you won't have another such bout, Squire," was Dr. Spreckley's cheerful answer.

"Is there nothing you can prescribe, or do, Doctor, that will guarantee me against another such attack?" asked Mr. Denison, with almost startling suddenness.

Dr. Spreckley put down the phial he had taken in his hand, and faced his patient.

"I should be a knave, Squire, to say that I could guarantee you against anything. We can only do our best and hope for the best."

Mr. Denison was silent for a few moments, then he began again.

"Look here, Spreckley; you know my age--on the twenty-fourth of next April I shall be seventy years old. You know, too, what interests are at stake, and how much depends upon my living to see that day."

"I am not likely to forget," said the Doctor. "These are matters that we have talked over many a time."

"Do you believe in your heart, Spreckley, that I shall live to see that day--the twenty-fourth of next April?"

The question was put very solemnly, and the sick man craned his long neck forward and stared at the Doctor with wild hungry eyes, as though his salvation depended on the next few words.

The physician's ruddy cheek lost somewhat of its colour as he hesitated. He fidgeted nervously with his feet, he coughed behind his hand, and then he turned and faced his patient. The signs had not been lost on the Squire.

"Really, my dear sir, your question is a most awkward one," said Spreckley, slowly, "and one which I am far from feeling sure that I am in a position to answer with any degree of accuracy."

"Words--words--words!" exclaimed the sick man, turning impatiently on his pillow. "Man alive! you can answer my question if you choose to do so. All I ask is, do you _believe_, do you think in your own secret heart, that I shall live to see the twenty-fourth of April? You can answer me that."

"Are you in earnest in wishing for an answer, Mr. Denison?"

"Most terribly in earnest. I tell you again that another turn like that of last night would finish me. At least, I believe it would. And I might have another attack any day or any hour, eh?"

"You might. But--but," added the Doctor, striving to soften his words, "it might not be so severe, you know."

"There are several things that I want to do before I go hence and am seen no more," spoke the Squire in a low tone. "You would not advise me to delay doing them?"

"I would not advise you, or any man, to delay such matters."

"You do not think in your heart that I shall live to see the twenty-fourth of April--come now, Spreckley!"

The Doctor placed his hand gently on Mr. Denison's wrist, and bent forward.

"If you must have the truth, you must."

"Yes, yes," was the eager, impatient interposition. "The truth--the truth."

"Well, then--these attacks of yours are increasing both in frequency and violence. Each one that comes diminishes your reserve of strength. One more sharp attack might, and probably would, prove fatal to you."

"You must ward it off, Spreckley."

"I don't know how to."

The Squire lifted his hand slightly, and then let it drop on the coverlet again. Was it a gesture of resignation, or of despair? His chin drooped forward on his breast, and there was unbroken silence in the room for some moments.

"Doctor," said Mr. Denison then, and his tones sounded strangely hollow, "I will give you five thousand pounds if you can keep me alive till the twenty-fifth of April. Five thousand, Spreckley!"

"All the money in the world cannot prolong life by a single hour when our time has come," said the surgeon. "You know that as well as I, Mr. Denison. Whatever human skill can do for you shall be done; of that you may rest assured."

"But still you think I can't last out--eh?"

The Doctor took one of his patient's hands and pressed it gently between both of his. "My dear old friend, I think that nothing short of a miracle could prolong your life till then," and there was an unwonted tremor in his voice as he spoke.

Nothing more was said. Dr. Spreckley turned to the door, remarking that he would come up again later in the day.

"There's no necessity," said the Squire, with spirit, as if he took the fiat in dudgeon and did not believe it. "No occasion for you to come at all to-day. I am better; much better. I should not have stayed in bed this morning, only you ordered me."

"Very well, Squire."

Mr. Denison lay back on his pillow and shut his eyes as the door closed on his friend and physician. Aaron Stone, coming into the room a little later, thought his master was asleep, and went out without disturbing him. An hour later Mr. Denison's bell rang loudly and peremptorily. The Squire was sitting up in bed when Aaron entered the room, and the old man marvelled to see him look so much better in so short a time. "An hour since he was like a man half dead, and now he looks as well as he did a year ago," muttered Aaron to himself. There was, indeed, a brightness in his eyes and a faint colour in his cheeks, such as had not been seen there for a long time; and his voice had something of its old sharp and peremptory tone.

"Aaron, what do you think Dr. Spreckley has been telling me this morning?" he suddenly asked.

"I'm a bad hand at guessing, Squire, as you ought to know by this time," was the somewhat ungracious answer.

"He tells me that I shall not live to see the twenty-fourth of next April."

Aaron's rugged face turned as white as it was possible for it to turn; a small tray that he had in his hands fell with a crash to the ground.

"Oh! master, don't say that--don't say that!" he groaned.

"But I must say it: and what's more, I feel it may be true," returned the Squire.

"I can't believe it; and I won't," stammered the old servant: who, whatever his faults of temper might have been, was passionately attached to his master. Aaron had never seriously thought the end was so near. The Squire had had these queer attacks, it was true: but did he not always rally from them and seem as well as ever? Why, look at him now!

"Spreckley must be a fool, sir, to say such a thing as that! Had he been at the whisky bottle?"

"I forced the truth from him," spoke the Squire. "It is always safest to get at the truth, however unpalatable it may be. Eh, now?"

"I'm fairly dazed," said the old man. "But I don't believe it. When you go, master, it will be time for me to go too."

"It's not that I'm afraid to go," said the Squire--"when did a Denison fear to die?--and Heaven knows my life has not been such a pleasant one of late years that I need greatly care to find the end near. It's the property, Aaron--this old roof-tree and all the broad acres--you know who will come in for them if I don't live to see next April."

The old serving-man's mouth worked convulsively; he tried to speak but could not. Tears streamed down his rugged cheeks. Pretending to busy himself about the fireplace, he kept his back turned to the Squire.

"If it were not for that, I should not care how soon my summons came," continued Mr. Denison; "but it's hard to have the apple snatched from you at the moment of victory. I would give half that I'm possessed of to anyone who would insure my living to the end of next April. Why not?"

"What's Spreckley but an old woman? he don't know," said Aaron. "Why don't you have some of the big doctors down from London, sir? Like enough they could pull you through when Spreckley can't."

The Squire laughed, a little dismally.

"You seem to forget that I had a couple of bigwigs down from London on the same errand some months ago. They and Spreckley had a consultation, and what was the result? They fully endorsed all that he had done, and said that they themselves could not have improved on his method of treatment. It would not be an atom of use, old comrade, to have them down again. That's my belief."

It was not Aaron's. He had no particular opinion of Spreckley--and he was fearfully anxious.

"Poor Ella! Poor lassie!" murmured the Squire, very gently. "I always hoped she would be the mistress of Heron Dyke when I was gone. But--but--but----" He broke off. He could not speak of it. Things just now seemed very bitter, grievously hard to bear.

"Won't you get up, master?"

"Not just now. You can come in by-and-by, Aaron," replied the Squire: and Aaron crept out of the room without another word.

The sitting-room of Aaron Stone and his wife was a homely apartment, opening from the kitchen. To this he betook himself, shut the door behind him, and sat down in silence. Dorothy had her lap full of white paper, cutting it out in fringed rounds to cover some preserves that had been made. Happening to look at her husband, she saw the tears trickling fast down his withered cheeks.

Dorothy's eyes and mouth alike opened. She gazed at him with a mixture of curiosity and alarm. Not for twenty years had she seen such a sight. Pushing back her silver hair under her neat white cap, she dropped the scissors and the paper, and sat staring.

"What is it?" she asked in a faint voice, picturing all kinds of unheard-of evils. "Anything happened to the lad, Aaron?"

"The lad" was Hubert, her grandson. He was very dear to Dorothy: perhaps not less so to Aaron. Aaron did not answer; could not: and, as if to relieve her fears, Hubert came in the next moment.

"Why, grandfather, what on earth has come to you?" cried the young man, no less astonished than Dorothy.

With a half sob, Aaron told what had come to them: the trouble had taken all his crusty ungraciousness out of him. The master was going to die. Spreckley said he could not keep him alive until next April. And Miss Ella would have to turn out of Heron Dyke to make way for those enemies, the other branch. And they should have to turn out too; and he and Dorothy, for all he knew, would die in the workhouse!

An astounding revelation. No one spoke for a little while. Then Dorothy began with her superstitions.

"I knew we should have a death in the house before long. There's been a winding-sheet in the candle twice this week; and on Sunday night as I came over the marshes three corpse-candles appeared there, and seemed to follow me all the way across. I didn't think it would be the Squire, though: I thought of Bolton's wife."

Bolton was the coachman, and his wife was delicate.

"Hush, granny!" reproved Hubert; "all that is nonsense, you know. Why does not the Squire call in further advice?" he added after a pause. "Spreckley's not good for much save a gossip."

"I asked him why not," said Aaron; "but he seems to think his time is come. If they could only keep him alive till next April, he says: that's all he harps upon."

"And I am sure there must be means of doing it," cried Hubert. "What one medical man can't do, another may. I have a great mind to call in Dr. Jago--saying nothing about it beforehand. He is wonderfully clever."

"The master might not forgive you, Hubert."

"But if the new man could prolong his life!" debated Hubert. "I'll think about it," he added, catching up his low-crowned hat.

He walked across the yard in his well-made shooting-coat that a lord might wear, and whistled to one of the dogs. The two housemaids stood in what was called the keeping-room, ironing fine things at the table underneath the window. They looked after the young man with admiring eyes. He held himself aloof from them, as a master does from a servant, but the girls liked him, for in manner to them he was civil and kind.

"Is he not handsome?" cried Ann. "And aren't both the old people proud of him?"

"What do you think I saw last night?" said Martha in a low tone, as Hubert Stone disappeared through the green door leading to the shrubbery. "I was coming home from that errand to Nullington, when, out there in the park, hiding behind a tree and peering at our windows here, was a grey figure that one might have taken for a ghost--poor Susan Keen. She did give me a turn, though."

"I wonder they don't stop her watching the house at night in the way she does," returned Ann, shaking out one of Mrs. Stone's muslin caps. "It gives one a creepy feeling to have her watching the windows like that--and to know what she's watching for."

"You know what she says, Ann!"

"Yes, I know; and a very uncomfortable thing it is," rejoined the younger servant. "If she sees Katherine at the window----"

"She told me again last night that she does see her," interrupted the elder; "has seen her three times now, in all. She says that Katherine stands at the window of her old room, in the moonlight."

Ann began to tremble; she was nearly as superstitious as old Dorothy.

"Don't you see what it implies, Martha? If Katherine is seen at the window, she must be in the house, that's all. I wish they'd have that north wing barred up!"

"You are ironing that net handkerchief all askew, Ann!"

"One has not got one's proper wits, talking of these ghostly things," was Ann's petulant answer, as she lifted the net off the blanket with a fling.

Hubert, meanwhile, was going down to the shore. What he had learnt troubled him in no measured degree, and his busy brain was hard at work. If only this fiat, which threatened evil to all of them, might be averted!

The tide was out, and he walked along the sands, flinging his stick now and again into the water for the dog to fetch out, as he recalled what he had heard about the almost miraculous skill of this Dr. Jago; who was said, nevertheless, to be an unscrupulous man in his remedies--kill or cure. Could he keep that life in Mr. Denison, which, as it appeared, Dr. Spreckley could not? These bold practitioners were often lucky ones. If Jago----

Hubert Stone halted, both in steps and thought. There flashed into his mind, he knew not why, something he had read in an old French work, recently bought: for the young fellow was a good French scholar. It was a case analogous to Mr. Denison's--where a patient had been kept alive, in spite of nature--or almost in spite of it. The means tried then, which were minutely described, might answer now. Hubert's breath quickened as he thought of it. For two hours he slowly paced the sands, revolving this and that.

A strange look of mingled excitement and determination sat on his face when he got back to the Hall. Mrs. Stone lamented to him that the dinner was over, meaning their dinner, and was all cold now. Hubert answered that he did not want dinner; but he wanted to see the Squire if he were alone. Yes, he was alone; and he seemed pretty well now. And not a word was to be breathed to Miss Ella about his illness: these were the strict orders issued.

When Hubert went in he found the Squire seated in his easy-chair in front of the fire. He looked very worn and thin, but his eyes were as resolute and his lips as firmly set as they had ever been.

"After what my grandfather told me this morning I could not help coming to see you, sir," said Hubert. "This is very sad news; but I hope that it is much exaggerated."

"There's no exaggeration about it, boy. You see before you, I fear, a dying man. Come now!"

"I am very, very sorry to hear it."

"Ay--ay--good lad, good lad! Some of you will miss me a bit, eh?"

"We shall all miss you very much, Squire: we shall never have such a master again. Of course, sir, I know that your great wish all along has been to live till your seventieth birthday had come and gone. Surely you will live to see that wish fulfilled!"

"That's just what I shan't live to see, if Spreckley's right," answered the Squire, and his face darkened as he spoke. "For my life I care little; it has been like a flickering candle these few years past. It's the knowledge that the estate will go away, from my pretty birdie, to a man whom I have hated all my life, that tries me. It is like the taste of Dead Sea apples in my mouth."

Hubert drew his chair a little nearer--for he had been bidden to sit.

"If you will pardon me, sir, for saying it, I do not think you ought to take what Dr. Spreckley says for granted. You should have better advice."

"The London doctors have been down once--and they did me no good. They'd not do it now. And there'd be the trouble and expense incurred for nothing."

"I was not thinking of London doctors, sir, but of one nearer home--Dr. Jago."

"Pooh! They say he is a quack."

Hubert Stone bent his head, and talked low and earnestly--describing what he had heard of Dr. Jago's wonderful skill.

"I--I know a little of medicine myself, sir," he added; "sometimes I wish I had been brought up to it, for I believe I have a natural aptitude for the science, and I read medical books, and have been in hospitals; and--and I think, Squire, that a clever practitioner who knows his business could at least keep you alive until next April. Ay, and past it. I almost think _I_ could."

Mr. Denison smiled. The idea of Hubert dabbling in such things tickled him.

"Well, and how would you set about it?" he demanded in pleasant mockery.

Hubert said a few words in a low tone; his voice seemed to grow lower as he continued. He looked strangely in earnest; his face was dark and eager.

"The lad must be mad--to think he could keep me alive by those means!" interrupted the Squire, staring at Hubert from under his shaggy brows, as though he half thought he saw a lunatic before him.

"If you would only let me finish, sir--only listen while I describe the treatment----"

"Pray, did you ever witness the treatment you would describe--and see a life prolonged by it?"

Without directly answering the question, Hubert resumed the argument in his low and eager tones. Gradually the Squire grew interested--perhaps almost unto belief.

"And you could--could doctor me up in this manner, you think!" he exclaimed, lifting his hand and letting it drop again. "Boy, you almost take my breath away."

"Perhaps I could not, sir. But I say Dr. Jago might."

Squire Denison sat thinking, his head bent down.

"Do you know this Dr. Jago?" he presently asked. "Have you met him?"

"Once or twice, sir. And I was struck with an impression of his inward power."

"Well, I--I will see him," decided the Squire. "And if he thinks he can--can keep life in me, I will make it worth his while. Why, lad, I'd give half my fortune, nearly, to be able to will away Heron Dyke out of the clutches of those harpies, who look to inherit it, and who have kept their spies about us here. You may bring this new doctor to me."

A glad light came into Hubert's face: he was at least as anxious as his master that Heron Dyke should not pass to strangers.

"Shall I bring him tomorrow, sir?"

"Ay, tomorrow. Why not? Spreckley will be here at ten; let the other come at noon. But look you here, lad: not a word to him beforehand about this idea of yours, this new--new treatment. I'll see him first."

The clock was striking twelve the following day when Dr. Jago rang at the door of the Hall. He was a little, dark-featured, foreign-looking man of thirty, with a black moustache and a pointed beard, and small restless eyes that seemed never to look stedfastly at anything or anybody, imparting an impression of being always on his guard. He had come to Nullington about a year ago, a stranger to everyone in it, and had started there in practice. His charges were low, and his patients chiefly those who could not afford to pay much in the shape of doctors' bills. But Dr. Spreckley was an elderly man, and Dr. Downes might be considered an old man, so there was no knowing what might happen in the course of a few years. Meanwhile Theophilus Jago possessed his soul in patience, and made ends meet as best he could. It was a great event in his life to be sent for by the Master of Heron Dyke.

"You are Dr. Jago, I think?" began the Squire, who was again in bed; and the Doctor bowed assent.

"I and my medical attendant, Dr. Spreckley, have had a slight difference of opinion. In all probability he will not visit me again, and I have sent for you in the hope that we may get on better together than Spreckley and I did."

"I am flattered by your preference, sir. You may rely upon my doing my best to serve you in every way."

"Probably you may have heard that I have been ill for a long time--people will talk--and, as a medical man, you most likely are aware of the nature of my complaint?"

Dr. Jago admitted this.

"I had a bad attack two days ago. Yesterday I asked Spreckley whether I should last over the twenty-fourth of next April. He told me that I could do so only by a miracle. He says I can't live, and I say that I must and will live over the date in question."

"And you have sent for me to--to----?"

"To keep me alive. Spreckley can't do it. You must. Now, don't say another word till you have examined me."

Not another word did Dr. Jago utter for a quarter of an hour, beyond asking certain questions in connection with the malady. This over, he sat down by the bedside and drew a long breath.

"Well, what's the verdict? Out with it," added the Squire grimly, the old hungry, wistful look rising in his eyes.

"I suppose you want to hear the truth and nothing but the truth, Mr. Denison?" said Dr. Jago.

"That is precisely what I do want to hear. Why not?"

"Then, sir, I think it most probable that Dr. Spreckley is correct. I fear I can only confirm his opinion."

There was a moment or two of silence.

"Then you say, with him, that I shall not live to see the twenty-fourth of April?"

"There is, of course, a possibility that you may do so," replied Dr. Jago, "but the probabilities are all the other way. I am very sorry, sir, to have to tell you this."

"Keep your sorrow until you are asked for it," returned the Squire, drily. "Perhaps you will pour me out half a glass of that Madeira. I am not so strong as I should like to be."

Dr. Jago did as he was requested, and then sat down and waited. Turning on him with startling suddenness, the sick man seized him by the wrist with a grip of iron, to pull him closer, and spoke with a grim earnestness.

"Look here, Jago, it's not of any use your telling me, or a thousand other doctors, that I shall not live to see April. I must and will live till then, and you must see that I do: you must keep me in life. Man! you stare as if I were asking you to kill me, instead of to cure me."

Dr. Jago tried to smile. He evidently doubted whether he had to deal with a lunatic.

"Pardon me, Mr. Denison," he said, "but in your condition you must avoid excitement. Perfect quiet is your greatest safeguard."

The sick man shrugged his shoulders.

"Well, well, you are perhaps right. You know my young secretary--Hubert Stone?"

"A little."

"And I dare say you think him a shrewd, clever young fellow, eh! But he is more clever than you think for, and has dabbled in many a curious science; medicine for one. He--listen, Mr. Physician--he has suggested a mode of treatment by which he believes I may be kept alive. Come now."

Dr. Jago's face expressed a mixture of surprise and incredulity not unmingled with sarcasm. Mr. Hubert Stone would indeed be a very clever gentleman if he could keep life in a dying man.

"_I_ do not know of any such treatment, Mr. Denison."

"Possibly not. But I suppose you are open to learn it?"

"If it can be taught me."

"Well, you go into the next room. Hubert is there, I believe, and will explain it to you better than I can. I never bothered my head about physics. When the conference is over come back to me."

Half an hour had elapsed--quite that--and the Squire was growing impatient, when Dr. Jago returned. He was looking, very grave.

"Will the treatment answer?" he cried out impatiently, before the Doctor could speak.

"It might answer, Mr. Denison; I do not say it would not. But--it is dangerous."

"And what if it is dangerous? I am willing to risk it--and I shall pay you well. What! you hesitate? Why, I have heard say that dangerous remedies are not unknown to you; that with you it is sometimes kill or cure."

"In a desperate case possibly. Not otherwise."

"And have you not just told me mine is desperate?"

"True."

"Then you will take me in hand. Bodikins!--if I were telling you to give me a dose of prussic acid as you stand there, you could but look as you are looking. See here. Listen. I will have these--these remedies tried, young man, and by you. I know your skill. I will give you five hundred pounds at once; and I will make it up to two thousand if you carry me over to the twenty-fifth of April."

"I accept the terms," said Dr. Jago, awaking from a reverie, and speaking with prompt decision now his mind was made up. To a struggling practitioner the money looked like a mine of gold: and perhaps Squire Denison's imperative will influenced his. "And I hope and trust I _shall_ be able to carry you over the necessary period," he added with intense earnestness. "My best endeavours shall be devoted to it."

Outside the door Hubert Stone was waiting, anxiety in his eyes.

"Yes, I have consented," said Dr. Jago, in answer to their silent questioning. "If we succeed--well. But I cannot forget the risk. And these hazardous risks, if they be discovered, are fatal to the reputation of a professional man."

"Take the book home with you, and study the case well," said Hubert, putting a volume, in the Doctor's hand. "Some little risk there must of course be, but I think not much. It succeeded there: why should it not succeed with Squire Denison?"

That evening Dr. Spreckley received a letter, written by Hubert Stone in his master's name, dismissing him from further attendance at Heron Dyke. The Squire added a kind message and enclosed a cheque; but he very unmistakably hinted that Dr. Spreckley was not expected to call again, even as a friend. Two doctors who held opposing views, and who pursued totally opposite modes of treatment, had better not come into contact with each other.