him.

"Good morning, doctor," she said, changing her countenance as best
she might, and attempting a smile.

"Ah, my fairy!" said he, leaving his villainous compounds, and coming
out to her; "and you, too, are about to become a steady old lady."

"Indeed, I am not, doctor; I don't mean to be either steady or old
for the next ten years. But who has told you? I suppose Mary has been
a traitor."

"Well, I will confess, Mary was the traitor. But hadn't I a right
to be told, seeing how often I have brought you sugar-plums in my
pocket? But I wish you joy with all my heart,--with all my heart.
Oriel is an excellent, good fellow."

"Is he not, doctor?"

"An excellent, good fellow. I never heard but of one fault that he
had."

"What was that one fault, Doctor Thorne?"

"He thought that clergymen should not marry. But you have cured that,
and now he's perfect."

"Thank you, doctor. I declare that you say the prettiest things of
all my friends."

"And none of your friends wish prettier things for you. I do
congratulate you, Beatrice, and hope you may be happy with the man
you have chosen;" and taking both her hands in his, he pressed them
warmly, and bade God bless her.

"Oh, doctor! I do so hope the time will come when we shall all be
friends again."

"I hope it as well, my dear. But let it come, or let it not come, my
regard for you will be the same:" and then she parted from him also,
and went her way.

Nothing was spoken of that evening between Dr Thorne and his niece
excepting Beatrice's future happiness; nothing, at least, having
reference to what had passed that morning. But on the following
morning circumstances led to Frank Gresham's name being mentioned.

At the usual breakfast-hour the doctor entered the parlour with a
harassed face. He had an open letter in his hand, and it was at once
clear to Mary that he was going to speak on some subject that vexed
him.

"That unfortunate fellow is again in trouble. Here is a letter from
Greyson." Greyson was a London apothecary, who had been appointed as
medical attendant to Sir Louis Scatcherd, and whose real business
consisted in keeping a watch on the baronet, and reporting to Dr
Thorne when anything was very much amiss. "Here is a letter from
Greyson; he has been drunk for the last three days, and is now laid
up in a terribly nervous state."

"You won't go up to town again; will you, uncle?"

"I hardly know what to do. No, I think not. He talks of com