."

"Thank you for nothing, Thorne: I can manage that matter myself. Now
leave me; but remember, you have ruined that girl's fortune."

The doctor did leave him, and went not altogether happy to his room.
He could not but confess to himself that he had, despite himself as
it were, fed himself with hope that Mary's future might be made more
secure, aye, and brighter too, by some small unheeded fraction broken
off from the huge mass of her uncle's wealth. Such hope, if it had
amounted to hope, was now all gone. But this was not all, nor was
this the worst of it. That he had done right in utterly repudiating
all idea of a marriage between Mary and her cousin--of that he was
certain enough; that no earthly consideration would have induced Mary
to plight her troth to such a man--that, with him, was as certain as
doom. But how far had he done right in keeping her from the sight of
her uncle? How could he justify it to himself if he had thus robbed
her of her inheritance, seeing that he had done so from a selfish
fear lest she, who was now all his own, should be known to the world
as belonging to others rather than to him? He had taken upon him on
her behalf to reject wealth as valueless; and yet he had no sooner
done so than he began to consume his hours with reflecting how great
to her would be the value of wealth. And thus, when Sir Roger told
him, as he left the room, that he had ruined Mary's fortune, he was
hardly able to bear the taunt with equanimity.

On the next morning, after paying his professional visit to his
patient, and satisfying himself that the end was now drawing near
with steps terribly quickened, he went down to Greshamsbury.

"How long is this to last, uncle?" said his niece, with sad voice, as
he again prepared to return to Boxall Hill.

"Not long, Mary; do not begrudge him a few more hours of life."

"No, I do not, uncle. I will say nothing more about it. Is his son
with him?" And then, perversely enough, she persisted in asking
numerous questions about Louis Scatcherd.

"Is he likely to marry, uncle?"

"I hope so, my dear."

"Will he be so very rich?"

"Yes; ultimately he will be very rich."

"He will be a baronet, will he not?"

"Yes, my dear."

"What is he like, uncle?"

"Like--I never know what a young man is like. He is like a man with
red hair."

"Uncle, you are the worst hand in describing I ever knew. If I'd seen
him for five minutes, I'd be bound to make a portrait of him;