But there was medicine of the right kind coming, and the very perusal with lack-lustre eyes of the prescription brought to his bedroom sent a flash of light into the glassy orbs, and in the course of a few weeks Septimus disappointed the doctors by getting well, Nature having arranged respecting the internal malformation. "I don't think you did him a bit of good, Mr Brande; not a bit--not a bit--not a bit," said Octavius to the rival practitioner. "He never took any of your stuffs. Now, come and set me up again, for I'm wrong." "Better, yes, he's better," said the old man to Mr Reston. "Good-morning--good-morning--good-morning." Doctor Hardon had sent his assistant over; but in place of seeing the patient he found himself bowed out; and on loudly complaining to the doctor, not on account of missing his interview with the patient, but for reasons of his own, Doctor Hardon now called. "Well, Tom--well, Tom--well, Tom?" said Octavius, smiling cynically, and looking his younger brother well over from top to toe. "What is it, Tom?" "O, about Septimus?" "There, be off; I'm busy. Septimus is getting on, and Mr Brande will physic him if he wants any more. A man who can't morally physic his own children can't do other people's good." Doctor Hardon, portly and pompous, rose to speak; but Octavius took hold of his arm and led him to the door, giving him his hat at the same time. "Good-bye, Tom--good-bye--good-bye. Don't come till I send for you again. You always were a fool, and an ass, and an idiot, and a humbug, Tom--always--always--always." There was a slight storm at Doctor Hardon's that day, and neither his wife nor daughters ventured much into his presence; but when, some weeks afterwards, the doctor knew of a scene that took place in his brother's house, he smiled softly, and after a fashion of his own he purred, while that night he was graciousness itself. Octavius Hardon sat writing, and listening to the words of his son till, as he grew interested, the pen ceased to form letters, and at last he pushed back his chair, overturning the inkstand, so that the sable current streamed across a fresh paragraph of his book. He thrust up his glasses and sheltered his eyes to look at his son--the son who had obeyed his every word and look, who had never seemed to have a thought of his own--the son who was even now, in spite of his forty years, but a boy; and as he looked, he saw that he seemed inches taller, that there was an elate look in his countenance, which it would have been hard at that moment to have called plain. "Going to be what?" gasped the father. "To be married," said the son firmly. "Married?" "Married, father." "And to whom? One of those hussies, your cousins?" "To Mrs Grey," replied Septimus. "What?" gasped the old man. "To a woman--a widow with a family--a proper inmate for the union--a pauper!"