'It is Steadman's uncle,' said Mary. 'Do let me go and speak to him, poor, poor old man.' 'The madman!' exclaimed Hartfield. 'No, Mary; go to your room at once. I'll get him back to his own den.' 'But he is not mad--at any rate, he is quite harmless. Let me just say a few words to him. Surely I am safe with you.' Lord Hartfield was not inclined to dispute that argument; indeed, he felt himself strong enough to protect his wife from all the lunatics in Bedlam. He went towards the end of the corridor, keeping Mary well behind him; but Mary did not mean to lose the opportunity of renewing her acquaintance with Steadman's uncle. 'I hope you are better, poor old soul,' she murmured, gently, lovingly almost, nestling at her husband's side. 'What, is it you?' cried the old man, tremulous with joy. 'Oh, I have been looking for you--looking--looking--waiting, waiting for you. I have been hoping for you every hour and every minute. Why didn't you come to me, cruel girl?' 'I tried with all my might,' said Mary, 'but people blocked up the door in the stables, and they wouldn't let me go to you; and I have been rather busy for the last fortnight,' added Mary, blushing in the darkness, 'I--I--am married to this gentleman.' 'Married! Ah, that is a good thing. He will take care of you, if he is an honest man.' 'I thought he was an honest man, but he has turned out to be an earl,' answered Mary, proudly. 'My husband is Lord Hartfield.' 'Hartfield--Hartfield,' the old man repeated, feebly. 'Surely I have heard that name before.' There was no violence in his manner, nothing but imbecility; so Lord Hartfield made up his mind that Mary was right, and that the old man was quite harmless, worthy of all compassion and kindly treatment. This was the same old man whom he had met on the Fell in the bleak March morning. There was no doubt in his mind about that, although he could hardly see the man's face in the shadowy corridor. 'Come,' said the man, 'come with me, my dear. You forgot me, but I have not forgotten you. I mean to leave you my fortune. Come with me, and I'll show you your legacy. It is all for you--every rupee--every jewel.' This word rupee startled Lord Hartfield. It had a strange sound from the lips of a Westmoreland peasant. 'Come, child, come!' said the man impatiently. 'Come and see what I have left you in my will. I make a new will every day, but I leave everything to you--every will is in your favour. But if you are married you had better have your legacy at once. Your husband is strong enough to take care of you and your fortune.' 'Poor old man,' whispered Mary; 'pray let us humour him.' It was the usual madman's fancy, no doubt. Boundless wealth, exalted rank, sanctity, power--these things all belong to the lunatic. He is the lord of creation, and, fed by such fancies, he enjoys flashes of wild happiness in the midst of his woe. 'Come, come, both of you,' said the old man, eagerly, breathless with impatience.