"We'll see; we'll see, Bessy. I should like you to try it, if you are not afraid. I'll talk to Dick. But--mind!--not a word here," he added, glancing round to indicate the precincts of Mrs. North. "We shall have to keep it to ourselves if we would not have it frustrated. I wonder how much Oliver makes a year." "Not much; but he is advancing slowly. He has talked to me about it. What keeps one will keep two, papa." "He comes into about two hundred a-year when his mother dies. And I fear she won't live long, from what she tells me. Poor Fanny! Not that I'd counsel any one to reckon on dead men's shoes, child. Life's uncertain: he might die before her." "He would not reckon on anything but his own exertions, papa. He told me a secret--that he is engaged on a medical work, writing it all his spare time. It is quite certain to become a standard work, he says, and bring him good returns. Oh! papa, there will be no doubt about our getting on. Let us risk it!" She spoke in a bright, hopeful tone--her mild eyes shining. Mr. North caught a little of the glad spirit, and resolved--Dick being willing: sensible Dick--that they should risk it. CHAPTER IX. IN LAWYER DALE'S OFFICE. Whitborough was a good-sized, bustling town, sending two members to parliament. In the heart of it lived Mr. Dale, the lawyer, who did a little in money-lending as well. He was a short stout man, with a red face and no whiskers, nearly bald on the top of his round head; and he usually attired himself in the attractive costume of a brown tail coat and white neckcloth. On this same morning which had witnessed the departure of Sir Nash Bohun and his son from Dallory Hall, Mr. Dale, known commonly amongst his townsfolks as Lawyer Dale--was seated in his office at Whitborough. It was a small room, containing a sort of double desk, at which two people might face each other. The lawyer's seat was against the wall, his face to the room; a clerk sometimes sat, or stood on the other side when business was pressing. Adjoining this office was one for the clerks, three of whom were kept; and clients had to pass through their room to reach the lawyer's. Mr. Dale was writing busily. The clock was on the stroke of twelve, and a great deal of the morning's work had still to be done, when one of the clerks came in: a tall, thin, cadaverous youth with black hair, parted into a flat curl on his forehead. "Are you at home, sir?" "Who is it?" asked Mr. Dale, growling at the interruption. "Mr. Richard North." "Send him in." Richard came in; a fine looking man in his mourning clothes; the lawyer could not help thinking so. After shaking hands--a ceremony Mr. Dale liked to observe with all his clients, when agreeable to them--he came from behind his desk to seat himself in his elbow-chair of red leather, and gave Richard a seat opposite. The room was small, the desk and other furniture large, and they sat very close together. Richard held his hat on his knee.