Under these circumstances, the reflections which crowded on the mind of Rowel were bitterness itself, and the more bitter, because he stood indebted to no one save himself for being placed in his present position. In imagination he saw himself reduced to the lowest extremity, at which point he began to form resolutions for his own protection against such a dreaded end. He fancied, perhaps, the lawyer might fall sick before his plans were ripe, and that he himself might have to attend him. Would that he might die suddenly!--that a fever would take him off, or a plague seize him--or--yes--nobody questions a physician's medicine--if--nay, he dare not trust his bewildered brain to think it. He must be mad--worse than mad--to suffer such a thought to cross his mind--and yet it came again and again--it _would_ come. He began to feel fearful of himself,--to doubt whether he could trust himself to do right rather than wrong, should misfortune place his opponent in his power. While Skinwell lived, the doctor himself held all he had upon the slender tenure of a dozen words, which might be spoken for the gain they would bring,--or be uttered recklessly in a moment of anger,--or might even drop out thoughtlessly, as one of those true things spoken in jest which they who hear never forget. Doctor Rowel looked up, and beheld the village lawyer before him, taking a seat on the opposite side of the table. Rowel did not acknowledge his entrance nor his presence, until after a few minutes of dead silence, in which his face became as white as ashes with the secret emotions of his mind. He then abruptly, and with hurried speech, put this question to him, “Mr. Skinwell, I have heard something lately respecting you,--and now I wish to know what it is you intend to do about that business of mine?” “Having already given my opinion, Doctor,” replied Skinwell, “I have nothing more to say to you.” “But I have something to say to you,” responded the physician. “I intend to know for what purpose you have had that girl in your house so long, before you and I part again.” “Indeed!” exclaimed Skinwell, sarcastically, though still somewhat flushed to find that his intentions had somehow become suspected; “then you are not the first man, Doctor, I can assure you, who has intended a great deal more than he could achieve. Do you imagine, because I am not quite _knave_ enough for you, that I am quite fool enough to make myself accountable to you for what I choose to do?” “I intend to know that,” repeated Rowel, doggedly. “Do you mean to blow to the world what has been made known to you in strict confidence as a professional man? Because, if that is your principle, I tell you beforehand, and to your face, that you are a disgrace to your profession, and a d----d dishonourable scoundrel to boot.”