Mr. Lynch took up all one side with apologies. The substance of the letter was, that a practice had unexpectedly been offered to him at the seaside, which he had accepted, as the air and locality would suit his state of health so much better than Dallory. If he could be of service in negotiating with any one else, he added, Dr. Rane was to make use of him. It was as courteous and explanatory a letter as could be written. But still it was a refusal: and the negotiation was at an end. Bessy Rane drew a deep breath: whether of relief or disappointment it might have puzzled herself to decide. Perhaps it was a mixture of both. "Then, after all, Oliver, we shall not be leaving!" "Not at present, it seems," was Dr. Rane's answer. And he put the two letters into his pocket. "Perhaps you will be thinking again, Oliver, of America, now?" said his wife. "Oh no, I shall not." "Does Dr. Jones still urge you to come?" "Not particularly. He took my refusal as final." She went on, slowly eating some of the mushrooms. Richard said nothing: this projected removal seemed to have impressed him to silence. Dr. Rane took up the remaining letter and turned it about, looking at the outside. "Do you know the writing, Oliver?" his wife asked. "Not at all. The postmark's Whitborough." Opening the letter, which appeared to contain only a few lines, Dr. Rane looked up with an exclamation. "How strange! How very strange! Bessy, you and I are the only two left in the tontine." "What!" she cried, scarcely understanding him. Richard North turned his head. "That tontine that we were both put into when infants. There was only one life left in it besides ourselves--old Massey's son, of Whitborough. He is dead." "What! George Massey? Dead!" cried Richard North. Dr. Rane handed him the note. Yes: it was even so. The other life had dropped, and Oliver Rane's and his wife's alone remained. "My father has called that an unlucky tontine," remarked Richard. "I have heard it said that if you want a child to live, you should put it into a tontine, for the tontine lives are sure to arrive at a green old age, to the mutual general mortification. This has been an exception to the rule. I am sorry about George Massey. I wonder what he has died of?" "Last long, in general, do you say?" returned Dr. Rane musingly. "I don't know much about tontines myself." "Neither do I," said Richard. "I remember hearing of one tontine when I was a boy: five or six individuals were left in it, all over eighty then, and in flourishing health. Perhaps that was why my father and Mr. Gass took up with one. At any rate, it seems that you and Bessy are the only two remaining in this." "I wonder if a similar condition of things ever existed before as for a man and his wife to be the two last in a tontine?" cried Dr. Rane, slightly laughing. "Bessy, practically it can be of no use to us conjointly; for before the money can be paid, one of us must die. What senseless things tontines are!"