"No!" roared the Major, with a dim suspicion that he was being made to appear ridiculous,--"not unless you like to come out and take the horsewhipping yourself. On the whole, I'd just as soon give it to you." "Many thanks," replied the doctor, with imperturbable coolness. "But I could not consent to appropriate anything designed for Mr. Arling." "If it hurts your conscience, you can pass it over to him," rejoined Major Bergan, with grim humor. "It would lose its flavor at second-hand," said the doctor, smiling. "It would be your own fault, if it did," responded the Major. "At any rate, take care that my message don't lose anything, on the way. And while you're about it, just tell him that he shall never have Bergan Hall, nor an inch of ground that belongs to it, never! I'll give it to--Astra Lyte, first!" The doctor slightly shrugged his shoulders, as an intimation that the Major's disposition of his property was a matter that did not interest him; but the latter mistook it for a sign of incredulity. "I will! I swear I will!" he repeated, with an oath. "And why shouldn't I?" he went on, after a slight pause, as if the sudden idea had unexpectedly commended itself to him,--"why shouldn't I? Her father was my cousin; and he had Bergan blood in his veins, too, through his mother; and he was a right good fellow, besides. Where is she?" "Miss Lyte is in New York, on a visit," replied the doctor. "Umph! I should like to see her. Is she growing up bright and handsome?" "She is both," returned the doctor, briefly. "Then, she shall have it!" exclaimed the Major, with sudden decision. "I'll go home, and make my will. Tell Harry so, for his comfort, when he comes back." And the Major, delighted that he had bethought himself of a revenge so swift and ample, mounted his horse, and rode off. On Bergan's return, the scene was described to him by Doctor Remy, with a minuteness and accuracy of detail and coloring that did great credit to that gentleman's powers both of observation and description. Nevertheless, there was something of cynicism, or of satire, that grated on his listener's ear; and he finally stopped the doctor's flow of eloquence with the question,-- "Who is Astra Lyte?" The doctor looked at him, with much surprise. "Is it possible that you have not yet heard of her?" he asked. "She is Mrs. Lyte's eldest daughter; and a genius, too,--or, at least, an artist;--they are not always synonymous terms, I believe. But where have you been living, not to have become acquainted with her name before this? It is always on Mrs. Lyte's lips; at least, she is ready to talk of her by the hour, with a little encouragement." "My conversations with Mrs. Lyte have not been many nor long," replied Bergan. "An artist, did you say?" But Doctor Remy had fallen into a fit of thought. He merely answered the question by a nod; and very shortly, he left Bergan to his own reflections. V. UNDER THE OAKS.