"You would advise me to make my will, eh?" The cunning smile with which he leered up into the physician's face hid a terrible anxiety at the back of it. The doctor pursed out his lips. "In such matters it is always advisable to be prepared, to take time by the forelock, as one may say. And in your case, Mr. Cortelyon, I am inclined to think--um--well, yes, that any testamentary arrangements you may have to make should not----" "I understand," broke in the Squire with a wave of his hand. "Not a word more is needed. Here is your fee. I am obliged to you for your frankness; and so good-day to ye." He felt as if sentence of death had just been pronounced on him. Yes, it was no longer possible to cheat himself with vain hopes of recovery. The dread fact that for him life's business was nearly over could no longer be ignored, and the sooner he clasped it to him and made himself familiar with its grim visage, the better it would be for him during the little time he could call his own. He had lately had private information from Piljoy that a certain property, on which for years he had set longing eyes, would be in the market before another twelvemonth was over, and yet he, Ambrose Cortelyon, would not be there to bid for it! Again he asked himself what Providence was about. Still, however much he might rail and rebel in secret at the dark prospect before him, knowing all the while how childish and futile it was to do so, his hard face in nowise softened to those about him, and he betrayed no slackness of interest in any of the little everyday affairs that went on around him. But another spectre, besides that grisly one which Dr. Mills's words had called up, began to haunt him, hovering round his pillow by night, and never being far from his elbow between daybreak and dark. There was only one way of exorcising it, as he knew full well, and that was by making his will. The entail had been cut off in his grandfather's time, sixty years before. How hateful soever the necessity might be, it was one which could not with safety be much longer delayed, unless he wished that all he might die worth should go to his disowned and unknown grandson. Beyond him and Nell, so far as he knew, he had not a single living relative. Whom, then, should he make his heir? For him it was fast becoming the question of questions. Oh, it was hard, hard, while he was still in what, rightly considered, ought to be looked upon as the prime of life, to have to part from the earthly possessions he loved so well, and which had cost him such long and painful scraping to accumulate! But there was no help for it; leave them he must; the fatal fiat had gone forth. At times, it may be, his heart sent forth an anguished cry for his dead son; but if such were the case, it in nowise served to mitigate the rancor, almost inhuman in its bitterness, with which he regarded the dead man's child. He had spoken no more than the truth when he said that he never forgave.