ead weight of conviction that years of an accepted
error had built up undisturbed. How easy it would have been had the tale
of Daverill's audacious fraud been a few months old; or a few years, for
that matter! It was that appalling lapse of time.

What could the doctor do to carry out his rash promise to Lady
Gwendolen, more than what he had done? He was already overdue at the
house of another patient, three miles off. The alternatives before him
were:--To rush the position, saying, "Look here, Granny Marrable,
neither you nor your sister are dead, but you were each told of the
other's death by the worst scoundrel God ever made." To do this or to
throw up the sponge and hurry off to his waiting patient! He chose the
latter. After all, he had striven hard to fulfil his promise to her
young ladyship, and only been repulsed from an impregnable fortress. But
he would have a parting shot.

"You must be very curious to see this queer old Mrs. Prichard, Mrs.
Marrable?" said he.

The old lady did not warm up to this at all. "Indeed, doctor, if I tell
the truth, I could not say I am. For to hear the poor old soul fancy
herself my sister, dead now five-and-forty years and more! Not for the
pain to myself, but for the great pity for a poor demented soul, and no
blessed Saviour near to bid the evil spirit begone. No, indeed--I will
hope she may be well on her way home before ever I return to Strides.
But my daughter says she'll be loath to part with her, so I'm not bound
to hurry back."

"Well--I rather hope she'll stop on long enough for you to get a sight
of her. You would be interested.... There's the postman." For they were
standing at the farm-gate by this time, leading into the lane.

"Yes, it be John Barlow on his new mail-cart. He's brought something for
the farm, or he wouldn't come this way.... Good-evening to you, John
Barlow!... What--three letters! And one of them for the old 'oman.... So
'tis!--'tis a letter from my little man Davy, bless his heart!"

"One fower th' ma'aster," said Mr. Barlow's strong rustic accent. "One
fower th' mistress. And one fower the granny. It be directed Strides,
but Widow Thrale she says, 'Ta'ak it along, to moother at Costrell's.'
And now ye've gotten it, Granny Marrable."

"There's no denying that, Master John. I'll say good-bye, doctor." But
what the letter-carrier was saying caught her ear, and she paused before
re-entering the house, holding the letters in her hand.

"There wa