It was only after she had gone that I thought how astounding it would have been to me to hear a girl of her age show such an acquaintance with worldliness and scheming, had I not been personally so much concerned about one of the objects of her remarks. She certainly was a strange girl. But strange as she was it was a satisfaction to think that the aunt had such a friend and ally in her wild niece. Evidently she had inherited her father’s fearlessness; and if only it should turn out that she had likewise inherited her mother’s firmness, she might render the best possible service to her aunt against the oppression of her wilful mother. “How were you able to get here to-day?” I asked, as she rose to go. “Grannie is in London, and the wolf is with her. Auntie wouldn’t leave uncle.” “They have been a good deal in London of late, have they not?” “Yes. They say it’s about money of auntie’s. But I don’t understand. _I_ think it’s that grannie wants to make the captain marry her; for they sometimes see him when they go to London.” CHAPTER XIX. THE INVALID. The following day being very fine, I walked to Oldcastle Hall; but I remember well how much slower I was forced to walk than I was willing. I found to my relief that Mrs Oldcastle had not yet returned. I was shown at once to Mr Stoddart’s library. There I found the two ladies in attendance upon him. He was seated by a splendid fire, for the autumn days were now chilly on the shady side, in the most luxurious of easy chairs, with his furred feet buried in the long hair of the hearth-rug. He looked worn and peevish. All the placidity of his countenance had vanished. The smooth expanse of his forehead was drawn into fifty wrinkles, like a sea over which the fretting wind has been blowing all night. Nor was it only suffering that his face expressed. He looked like a man who strongly suspected that he was ill-used. After salutation,— “You are well off, Mr Stoddart,” I said, “to have two such nurses.” “They are very kind,” sighed the patient “You would recommend Mrs Pearson and Mother Goose instead, would you not, Mr Walton?” said Judy, her gray eyes sparkling with fun. “Judy, be quiet,” said the invalid, languidly and yet sharply. Judy reddened and was silent. “I am sorry to find you so unwell,” I said. “Yes; I am very ill,” he returned. Aunt and niece rose and left the room quietly. “Do you suffer much, Mr Stoddart?” “Much weariness, worse than pain. I could welcome death.” “I do not think, from what Dr Duncan says of you, that there is reason to apprehend more than a lingering illness,” I said—to try him, I confess. “I hope not indeed,” he exclaimed angrily, sitting up in his chair. “What right has Dr Duncan to talk of me so?” “To a friend, you know,” I returned, apologetically, “who is much interested in your welfare.” “Yes, of course. So is the doctor. A sick man belongs to you both by prescription.”