“Yes,” said he, roughly, for his pain was again upon him. “I wanted any one that would be humane enough to sit with me for a while. Are you steady enough of hand to drop that medicine for me, child?” “I think so,” said she, smiling gently. “But you must be certain, or it won't do. I 'd not like to be poisoned, my good girl. Five-and-twenty drops,--no more.” “I 'll count them, sir, and be most careful,” said she, rising, and taking the bottle. “Egad, I scarcely fancy trusting you,” said he, half peevishly. “A giddy thing like you would feel little remorse at having overdone the dose.” “Oh, grandpapa!” “Oh, of course you 'd not do it purposely. But why am I left to such chances? Why is n't your mother here? There are all my letters, besides, unread; and they cannot, if need were, be answered by this post.” “She said that she 'd be obliged to call at the bank this morning, sir, and was very likely to be delayed there for a considerable time.” “I 'm sure I cannot guess why. It is Trover and Twist 's duty to attend to her at once. They would not presume to detain _her_, Oh! here comes the pain again! Why do you irritate me, child, by these remarks? Can't you see how they distress me?” “Dear grandpapa, how sorry I am! Let me give you these drops.” “Not for the world! No, no, I 'll not be accessary to my own death. If it come, it shall come at its own time. There, I am not angry with you, child; don't get so pale; sit down here, beside me. What's all this story about your guardian? I heard it so confusedly last night, during an attack of pain, I can make nothing of it.” “I scarcely know more of it myself, sir. All I do know is that he has come out from England to take me away with him, and place me, mamma says, at some Pensionnat.” “No, no; this mustn't be,--this is impossible! You belong to us, dear Clara. I 'll not permit it Your poor mamma would be heart-broken to lose you.” Clara turned away, and wiped two large tears from her eyes; her lips trembled so that she could not utter a word. “No, no,” continued he; “a guardian is all very well, but a mother's rights are very different,--and such a mother as yours, Clara! Oh! by Jove! that _was_ a pang! Give me that toast-and-water, child!” It was with a rude impatience he seized the glass from her hand, and drank off the contents. “This pain makes one a downright savage, my poor Clara,” said he, patting her cheek, “but old grandpapa will not be such a bear to-morrow.” “To-morrow, when I'm gone!” muttered she, half dreamily. “And his name? What is it?” “Stocmar, sir.” “Stocmar,--Stocmar? never heard of a Stocmar, except that theatrical fellow near St. James's. Have you seen him, child?” “No, sir. I was out walking when he called.”