“Wheat, from the Ear to the Breakfast Table,” was the exhaustive title of one paper. Another, supposed to be written by the same author, appeared as “Hot Rolls!” “Our Daily Bread” graced the columns of one of the religious periodicals; while, “Adulteration Considered Morally and Socially,” was universally attributed by the critics to the pen of one of the most gifted and thoughtful authoresses of the day. With all these helps, was it any wonder that the shares of the Protector should soon be at a premium? that every one connected with the Company felt himself to be to some extent a person of consequence; that Arthur Dudley forgot his fears, and only remembered his interest in the great concern; that even the mortgaging of Berrie Down grew in time to be a mere bagatelle—a trifle not worth fretting about? What might the shares not ultimately touch! Supposing the ten pound share, paid up, came in time to be worth a hundred pounds, why, his income would be enormous; and there was nothing to prevent the shares going on rising, rising in value. If they reached fifty, would he sell? Arthur could not decide this point to his own satisfaction. If he sold, he should then have no anxiety about loss; but, on the other hand, would it be wise to sell before they reached their maximum? Then, who ever could tell when the maximum was reached? These were the questions which perplexed the Squire, building his castles in the air, while pacing on the calm summer evenings round and round Lincoln’s Inn Fields, smoking the while such cigars as never fall to the lot of any one, save secretaries and others of the same ilk, who get all sorts of good things given to them by all kinds of singular people. Arthur, in the days of which I am now writing, never bought a cigar by any chance. He had boxes of the best Havannas sent him, which he was now not too proud to accept. The world had gone round since he strolled a poor man through the fields at Berrie Down. Accepting a favour did not, according to the new code, mean placing himself under an obligation. No; it rather meant conferring an obligation on the donor. What those donors expected Arthur Dudley would be able to do for them, it is impossible even to conjecture. Arthur himself never knew; and so, with an untroubled conscience, he smoked his cigars and dreamed his dreams. At this time, Heather was away from home—away at the sea-side with her children, whom she took down to Hastings, for a month, in the hope that sea-air might do Lally more good than all Dr. Chickton’s prescriptions. Quite as tenderly as he had treated Master Charles Hope, that renowned practitioner inquired into Lally’s symptoms, and devoted himself to the restoration of her health; but for all this care the child proved ungrateful.