"Senseless indeed," answered Bessy. "I'd say something to it if we could have the money now. How much is it?" "Ay, by the way, how much is it? What was it that each member put in at first, Richard? I forget. Fifty pounds, was it? And then there's the compound interest, which has been going on for thirty years. How much would it amount to now?" "More than two thousand pounds," answered Richard North, making a mental calculation. Dr. Rane's face flushed with a quick hot flush: a light shone in his eye: his lips parted, as with some deep emotions. "More than two thousand pounds!" he echoed under his breath. "Two thousand pounds! Bessy, it would be like a gold-mine." She laughed slightly. "But we can't get it, you see, Oliver. And I am sure neither of us wishes the other dead." "No--no; certainly not," said Dr. Rane. Richard North said good-day and left. Just before turning in at the gates of Dallory Hall, he met a gig containing Lawyer Dale of Whitborough, who was driving somewhere with his clerk; no other than Timothy Wilks. Mr. Dale pulled up, to speak. "Can it be true that George Massey is dead?" questioned Richard as they were parting. "It's true enough, poor fellow. He died yesterday: was ill but two days." "I've just heard it at Dr. Rane's. He received a letter this morning to tell him of it." "Dr. Rane did? I was not aware they knew each other." "Nor did they. But they were both in that tontine. Now that George Massey's gone, Dr. Rane and his wife are the only two remaining in it. Rather singular that it should be so." For a minute Mr. Dale could not recollect whether he had ever heard of this particular tontine; although, being a lawyer, he made it his business to know everything; and he and Richard talked of it together. Excessively singular, Lawyer Dale agreed, that a tontine should be practically useless to a man and his wife--unless one of them died. "Very mortifying, I must say, Mr. Richard North; especially where the money would be welcome. Two thousand pounds! Dr. Rane must wish the senseless thing at Hanover. I should, I know, if it were my case. Good-morning." And quiet Timothy Wilks, across whom they talked, heard all that was said, and unconsciously treasured it up in his memory. Richard carried home the news to his father. Mr. North was seated at the table in his parlour, some papers before him. He lifted his hands in dismay. "Dead! George Massey dead! Dick, as sure as we are here, there must be something wrong about that tontine! Or they'd never drop off like this, one after another." "It's not much more than a week ago, sir, that I met George Massey in Whitborough, and was talking to him. To all appearance he was as healthy and likely to live as I am." "What took him off?" "Dale says it was nothing more than a neglected cold." "I don't like it; Dick, I don't like it," reiterated Mr. North, "Bessy may be the next to go; or Rane." "I hope not, father."