us last night—such a nice dinner, and
so well done in every way—best taste, good
style, and all that——"

"But what has happened?" said
Conway, impatiently.

"She has been seized. Capper sent for
at six this morning—hardly time to dress
oneself—a vessel gone—dreadful!"

On another occasion Conway would have
smiled at these confused hints, and might
have been justified in thinking that the
doctor was alluding to some voyage. But
he knew that the allusion was to the
delicate throat and lungs of the young girl.
When he was alone he could not but think
of the strange last look of disappointment
and uneasiness she gave over at where he
was sitting with Jessica. And almost at
once he associated this illness in some way
with himself. This, not from vanity, but
from a sort of instinct.

Then, as a matter of course, a feeling of
compassion rose in him for this poor
wayward, spoiled girl, whose impulses seemed
1o him most dramatic and interesting. She
was truly natural, and that look would come
back upon him.

By noon the news had spread through
the place, that the heiress had been taken
ill. The local doctor was the conduit pipe
of this intelligence, making of his journeys
as much splash and scamper as they could
possibly bear. He returned with mysterious
look, but with an almost suppressed delight,
and announced it was a very serious matter
indeed. Later, the great Leviathan of a
London physician telegraphed for had
arrived duly, with his stock of fussiness,
looking very grave, consenting, as a sort of
personal favour, to stop over the night.
Mrs. Silvertop was in vast demand, waited
on by " visitors," waylaid in the town, and
forced in to drink tea, while the local
doctor, exceedingly deferential in presence
of the London doctor, talked to his own
friends of himself and that dignitary in a
partnership fashion, as " we."

Conway hurried out to the castle to
inquire, and the owner came down to him
with deep trouble on his face. " You were
the one I was wishing for," he said. " You
find us in a wretched way here. My poor
child! I don't know what we are to do.
My only child too. I cannot lose her!"

"But is there really danger?" asked
Conway. " This is terrible!"

"They have done all they could, that is,
patched her up for the present; but they
say they cannot answer for the future.
The truth is, my poor darling has something
exciting on her mind—something her heart
is set upon; and though I would give my
own life to gratify her, still, in this I know
not how to do so. If it was mere money,
a matter of thousands—but there are things
which all our money cannot procure for
her."

Conway looked mystified, yet he had a
dim suspicion as to what was the meaning
of all this.

"And yet," the father went on, " would
it not be like murder to let a mere matter
of delicacy stand between me and the life
of my child? I cannot let her waste and
fret herself out of life rather than hang
back from speaking plainly—and, above all,
to you."

"To me?" said Conway.

"Yes, to you. I know you will have
indulgence for my situation. The truth is,"
and the baronet's eyes were fixed steadily
on the ground, while he spoke very slowly
and hesitatingly, " she—likes—you, and
she has an idea that you like, or might like,
her, but for the interference of certain other
people. She has always been indulged,"
pleaded the baronet. " She has hitherto
only had to ask for anything to have
it. Even this business of that bridge, the
men are to begin at once. I give that
up to her, though it will ruin me with the
people; for I wished to be a member for this
place one day. Mr. Conway, you must not
think we are degrading ourselves. And I
merely tell you, you are the physician, and
can apply the remedy!"

Conway, almost flushed with pleasure at
finding himself in this position—always a
flattering one for a man when the conventional
attitude of the parties is thus
reversed. The other saw his hesitation.

"She knows nothing, poor child, as I
live and stand here—no! You believe me
to be a man of honour, Mr. Conway; and
I tell you I would shrink from this step.
I only want to save her life. Ask Sir Duncan
Dennison, upstairs. He will tell you it
hangs upon a thread. Be generous, or, at
least, indulgent. Take time, and don't
give an answer now, but think it over."

What was Mr. Conway to say or do?
He was inclined to reject such a proposal
promptly, and with the usual noble Roman
air. Suitable words rose to his lips.

"You do me a very great honour, Miss
Panton and you. I understand all
perfectly, and can think you have only done
what an affectionate father would do. I
see nothing strange or degrading—nothing
but what is natural, and a very handsome