s. Heale with a look of
incredulous scorn, as if she expected the box to be a mere sham,
filled probably with shavings. For (from reasons best known to
herself) she had never looked pleasantly on the arrangement which
entrusted to Tom the care of the bottles. She had given way from
motives of worldly prudence, even of necessity; for Heale had been
for the greater part of the week quite incapable of attending to his
business: but black envy and spite were seething in her foolish heart,
and seethed more and more fiercely when she saw that the box did
not contain shavings, but valuables of every sort and kind--drugs,
instruments, a large microscope (which Tom delivered out of Miss
Heale's fat clumsy fingers only by strong warnings that it would go
off and shoot her), books full of prints of unspeakable monsters; and
finally, a little packet, containing not one five-pound note, but
four, and a letter which Tom, after perusing, put into Mr. Heale's
hands, with a look of honest pride.

The Mumpsimus men, it appeared, had "sent round the hat" for him, and
here were the results; and they would send the hat round again every
month, if he wanted it; or, if he would come up, board, lodge, and
wash him gratis. The great Doctor Bellairs, House Physician, and
Carver, the famous operator (names at which Heale bowed his head
and worshipped), sent compliments, condolences, offers of
employment--never was so triumphant a testimonial; and Heale, in his
simplicity, thought himself (as indeed he was) the luckiest of country
doctors; while Mrs. Heale, after swelling and choking for five
minutes, tottered into the back room, and cast herself on the sofa in
violent hysterics.

As she came round again, Tom could not but overhear a little that
passed. And this he overheard among other matters:--

"Yes, Mr. Heale, I see, I see too well, which your natural blindness,
sir, and that fatal easiness of temper, will bring you to a premature
grave within the paupers' precincts; and this young designing infidel,
with his science and his magnifiers, and his callipers, and philosophy
falsely so called, which in our true Protestant youth there was none,
nor needed none, to supplant you in your old age, and take the bread
out of your grey hairs, which he will bring with sorrow to the grave,
and mine likewise, which am like my poor infant here, of only too
sensitive sensibilities! Oh, Anna Maria, my child, my poor lost child!
which I can feel for the tend