most more than balanced
this. When a man has daily to reflect that he is poorer than he was
the day before, he soon becomes worn and sorrowful.

But Frank was well; both in health and spirits. He also felt as Mary
did, that the day was to bring forth something which should end his
present troubles; and he could not but be happy to think that he
could now tell Dr Thorne that his father's consent to his marriage
had been given.

The doctor shook hands with them both, and then they sat down. They
were all rather constrained in their manner; and at first it seemed
that nothing but little speeches of compliment were to be made. At
last, the squire remarked that Frank had been talking to him about
Miss Thorne.

"About Mary?" said the doctor.

"Yes; about Mary," said the squire, correcting himself. It was quite
unnecessary that he should use so cold a name as the other, now that
he had agreed to the match.

"Well!" said Dr Thorne.

"I suppose it must be so, doctor. He has set his heart upon it, and
God knows, I have nothing to say against her--against her personally.
No one could say a word against her. She is a sweet, good girl,
excellently brought up; and, as for myself, I have always loved her."
Frank drew near to his father, and pressed his hand against the
squire's arm, by way of giving him, in some sort, a filial embrace
for his kindness.

"Thank you, squire, thank you," said the doctor. "It is very good of
you to say that. She is a good girl, and if Frank chooses to take
her, he will, in my estimation, have made a good choice."

"Chooses!" said Frank, with all the enthusiasm of a lover.

The squire felt himself perhaps a little ruffled at the way in which
the doctor received his gracious intimation; but he did now show it
as he went on. "They cannot, you know, doctor, look to be rich
people--"

"Ah! well, well," interrupted the doctor.

"I have told Frank so, and I think that you should tell Mary. Frank
means to take some land into his hand, and he must farm it as a
farmer. I will endeavour to give him three, or perhaps four hundred a
year. But you know better--"

"Stop, squire; stop a minute. We will talk about that presently. This
death of poor Sir Louis will make a difference."

"Not permanently," said the squire mournfully.

"And now, Frank," said the doctor, not attending to the squire's last
words, "what do you say?"

"What do I say? I say what I said to you in London the other day. I
believe