money, and
obtain some credit for himself thereby, which no man could expect from
his own relations. There was an infirmary at Malsham, rather a juvenile
institution as yet, in aid whereof Mr. Whitelaw had often been plagued
for subscriptions, reluctantly doling out half-a-guinea now and then,
more often refusing to contribute anything. He had never thought of this
place in his life before; but the image of it came into his mind now, as
he had seen it on market-days for the last four years--a bran new
red-brick building in Malsham High-street. He thought how his name would
look, cut in large letters on a stone tablet on the face of that edifice.
It would be something to get for his money; a very poor and paltry
something, compared with the delight of possession, but just a little
better than nothing.

He lay for some time pondering upon this, with that image of the stone
tablet before his eyes, setting forth that the new wing of this
institution had been erected at the desire of the late Stephen Whitelaw,
Esq., of Wyncomb Farm, who had bequeathed a sum of money to the infirmary
for that purpose, whereby two new wards had, in memory of that respected
benefactor, been entitled the Whitelaw wards--or something to the like
effect. He composed a great many versions of the inscription as he lay
there, tolerably easy as to his bodily feelings, and chiefly anxious
concerning the disposal of the money; but, being unaccustomed to the task
of composition, he found it more difficult than he could have supposed to
set forth his own glory in a concise form of words. But the tablet would
be there, of course, the very centre and keystone of the building, as it
were; indeed, Mr. Whitelaw resolved to make his bequest contingent upon
the fulfilment of this desire. Later in the evening he told William
Carley that he had made up his mind about his will, and would be glad to
see Mr. Pivott, of Malsham, rival solicitor to Mr. Randall, of the same
town, as soon as that gentleman could be summoned to his bedside.

The bailiff seemed surprised at this request.

"Why, surely, Steph, you can't want a lawyer mixed up in the business!"
he said. "Those sort of chaps only live by making work for one another.
You know how to make your will well enough, old fellow, without any
attorney's aforesaids and hereinafters. Half a sheet of paper and a
couple of sentences would do it, I should think; the fewer words the
better."

"I'd rather have Pivott, an