captain added, putting the shovel hat out of the
window, "your cab's not in a fit state, sir;
there's a hole in the door here." Then his voice
fell again into the old soft key so natural to him.
"Ah, you like him, pet? I see it with half an
eye; and, upon my conscience, I like you for
it; I do, for he's as fine a man as ever stepped,
and I don't wonder you love him, my dear."

"Oh, uncle!" she said.

"Nonsense," he went on. "Surely you don't
mind me no more than a priest—I was going to
say an old woman, but Tom's not come to that
yet. And I can tell you Tillotson has his eyes
open, such as he is, and knows when a pretty
girl likes him. Ay, indeed."

"Oh, uncle, what do you mean?" she half
faltered. Had there been light, he would have
seen her blushing.

"There, you shiver again, my dear. Confound
this cabman! I'll summons him in the morning.
I could tell you something I heard the
other night when the poor fellow was lying
tossing and saying little scraps of talk to
himself. He opened his eyes and fixed them on me
just as you might. Then he gave a moan that
went to my heart, so it did. 'What ails you,
my poor fellow?' I said. 'All is lost,' he replied.
'It was a foolish dream. She does not care for
me, and never did. All is lost.' I remember
those words. And though I knew he couldn't
know what I was talking of, I couldn't help
telling him to cheer up, for she did love him,
and that Tom knew, and knows it now."

"Oh, uncle," the young girl repeated again,
"what can you mean?"

"I mean that's what the poor fellow has got
ill on. He has had a struggle, and it's worried
him into this fit."

"Ah! nunkey, how can you know it is about
me? He has met plenty of others."

This view staggered the captain for a moment.
But he recovered himself. "Didn't I hear
him mention your nice little name, though—
eh?"

"My name? No, no."

"On my solemn oath, yes," said the captain.
"I give you my word of honour. Oh, I wouldn't
say it." Alas, this was another of the
captain's venial untruths. "'Yes,' says he, as
plain as I am speaking now, 'oh, how I love her,
and she must be mine.'" Mr. Tillotson had
never used this form of ejaculation, but a passage
from one of the old novels drifted across the
captain's brain, and seemed to him highly
appropriate, and even elegant.

Mr. Tillotson had indeed made some such
disordered allusion, but it was to another name,
and to another lady.

When they arrived home it was midnight.
The gloomy Martha Malcolm, grim and
terrible, met them at the door. "This is nice
gadding," she said; "an' you're fit for goin' out
at night?"

"Once and away, Mrs. Malcolm, you know,"
said the captain, in high good humour.

"I have no fault with you, Mr. Diamond;
but she will be neither said nor led. You ought
to be ashamed, miss. You're getting old
enough now to have sense."

"Ah, then, she has sense, I can tell you,
Martha. More than the full of our two old
heads; that is, I mean," he added, a little
confused, "of this old head—Tom's, you know, my
dear. Why, Mrs. Malcolm, you could be my
daughter, let alone my niece. But she knows
what she's about, Mrs. Malcolm, and had a little
business to-night."

"Hush, uncle," said the girl, rushing up-stairs.
Mrs. Malcolm came grumbling on behind.

"Business, indeed. Going after a whining,
sickly, puling creetur. He's not half a man:
his head all the time drivellin' over another girl."

"No, oh no," said the captain, alarmed at
this allusion. "You are a little out there."

"Maybe I am," said the other, coldly, "but
I know better all the time. But surely, cap'en,
you should have the sense not to be dragging a
thing of that sort, with a chest no thicker than
my muslin cap, about the town at this hour of
the night. Do you feel that wind? Listen!
I shouldn't wonder if it was her death."

CHAPTER IX. SIR DUNCAN DENNISON.

ON the next morning the captain was abroad
again, very smart and shiny, having had time
to curl his glossy whiskers with his French little
irons; and with his bishop's hat rather cocked,
and the curls of his wig projecting in volutes
at each side, and giving him an almost defiant
air (for those who did not know the sweet
temper of the man), set forth to see his friend.

Sir Duncan was there already, notwithstanding
the claret of the night before, and had
brought the sceptical Slader. He was still hot
with arguing with that gentleman, who was
incredulous, and would not be convinced.

"It's all negative," said Slader, moodily. He
indeed felt the ground was slipping away from
him.

"Negative," said the other, indignantly,
"Have you eyes in your head? And with a
thing of this sort staring you in the face—as
plain as if it were coarse small-pox—you keep
talking on such trash."

"I don't see it," said Slader, doggedly.

"No, nor wouldn't if the man was lying
there with his leg cut off. I am sick of this.
Why, if I had brought old Drinkwater he'd
have just shaken himself out of his skin with
delight. He would. Why, look at him now.
Change coming on; all as I said last night."

"Not to me," said Slader.

Sir Duncan looked at the patient with
inexpressible fondness, and with a lingering regret
that he should allow him to get well. Then
turned to the captain, whom he felt was a
safe trustee, for his golden remuneration, and
said, "Fine morning, sir."

The captain had been listening, a little dazed,
to this singular discussion, and did not dare to
interrupt—hardly to breathe—while it was
going on. He then said, timorously, "Better
this morning, doctor?"

"Oh, he'll do," said the other, impatiently.