"I have waited long enough,"--so ran one of these half-involuntary utterances,--"I have waited long enough for Fortune's willing favors; it is time to grapple with the exasperating jade, and wring them from her reluctant hands, by fair means or foul. For what else was I endowed with talent, daring, energy, and will, beyond most men? Not, certainly, to waste them all in earning a bare subsistence, or little more, as I am now doing." "Is it my fault," he went on, in broken, detached sentences,--"is it my fault that Fortune never shows herself to me, save at the farther end of some dark vista which the world calls crime?--Pshaw! what is a life, one worthless, drunken, half-worn-out life, in comparison with the ends that I have in view,--increase of knowledge, expansion and perfection of science, and through them--as a casual end, I do not pretend that it is a direct one, for me--the advancement of the human race.--The plan seems feasible, as much so, at least, as anything can be, in this miserable, mocking world, where Fate seems to delight in balking the best talent and deranging the artfulest contrivance.--Fate, Chance, or Providence, which? Three different terms for the same thing;--language would be more accurate, if there were less of it.--At any rate, I have given Providence a chance. Let it take the responsibility of the result.--If that will be not made! But to whom else should he give the place? He cannot abide either his brother or his nephew. And Miss Lyte comes next. Besides, there are ways of finding a will, at need. The essential point is, that no other be made." He was now nearing Mrs. Lyte's house, and the sight of it prompted his next sentence. "Astra!--there, at least, the way is easy. Only, it must be secret;--I doubt if the old Major would altogether relish me for his heir, despite to-night's increase of cordiality.--As for Arling, it is said that history--" Dr. Remy broke off suddenly. The subject of his soliloquy was calmly looking at him across Mrs. Lyte's gate. "Pardon me for interrupting jour conversation," said Bergan, with a smile which satisfied the doctor that he had not heard what he was saying. "One's talks with one's self are sometimes very interesting." "Why are you not in bed?" asked the doctor, with a sharpness that Bergan set down to professional anxiety. "A man who goes to bed at six may well get up at twelve," he replied, lightly, "especially if sleep forsakes him. Have you been out until this time?" "Yes," answered the doctor, debating within himself whether he would speak of his visit to Bergan Hall, and quickly deciding in the negative, since there was little probability that Bergan would hear it from anybody else; inasmuch as the Hall led an independent, isolated life of its own, the events of which rarely made their way into the talk of the town. "It is nothing new for me to be late," he added, by way of finish to his monosyllable.