In spite of my inward anxiety, I shall always remember that Sunday with pleasure. The little whitewashed church, with the honest rustics singing hearty hymns to the quavering organ, while sunbeams came and went upon the walls, and the quivering foliage of an elm in the churchyard cast green lights upon my open prayer-book. The Mervyns are nice people. Mrs. Mervyn is a trifle too sharp, perhaps; I saw her eyes fixed upon me now and then with rather too scrutinising an expression. But it is very pretty, almost touching, to see her ways with that motherless girl. She loves her really, the good woman! When we were walking in the garden, Lilia and Mr. Mervyn strolling on in front of us, she was so good as to tell me she was glad I had come. “Lilia knows so few young people, and no girls,” she said. “It is a law of her father’s, and always has been. Poor dear child! she is really not fit to face the world. She knows absolutely nothing of it.” “Let us hope she may not be called upon to face the world,” I said. [Here the written pages in a notebook of Hugh Paull’s abruptly ended.] CHAPTER IV. A MORAL DUEL. “Dr. Hildyard wishes to see you, sir.” “Where is the doctor?” Hugh asked, putting aside the notebook in which he was writing. A short, square man, with shaggy grey hair and keen blue eyes, came bustling in. “How are you, Paull? Want a few words with you on private business.” “Certainly,” said Hugh, bringing up a chair; but the doctor impatiently waved his hand. “No, no! I ought to be miles away as it is. Do you remember that case of Sir Roderick Pym?” Did he remember it? But the doctor was utterly unconscious that he was ironical. “Ah! Well, you pulled him round, and watched his progress so closely that I should be glad of your opinion in a case of mine, very like his.” Dr. Hildyard detailed the case, which was one of concussion similar to Sir Roderick’s; and the next time Hugh was off duty he accompanied the well-known specialist to see his patient, a middle-aged lady, whose brougham had been overturned by collision with a dray-cart. He felt the distinction of his opinion being sought by so great a man keenly, but kept this most unusual honour a secret, even when writing home. Meanwhile, he gave his opinion modestly, but firmly. That opinion was in favour of a different course of treatment to the one pursued by Dr. Hildyard. Dr. Hildyard modified his treatment, and liked the young man all the more for speaking frankly. A frank, bold man himself, he hated sycophants. When, a few weeks later, the patient died, he said: “Perhaps, after all, Paull, your treatment might have brought her round.”