“The alteration of the will was then made, and duly signed and attested. The will was then committed to the care of Mr. Simpson, the banker, and the party who had witnessed it were requested to stay and dine at the cottage; and nobody could appear in better spirits or in better health than Martindale then did. He was quite as full of humor as ever; and he laughed and joked about the great house, for that was the name by which he always called the Abbey; and he several times said, ‘I think I must make another alteration in the will, and leave that foolish building for a public hospital, or for a madhouse; for it is only fit for crazy folks to inhabit.’ Then he said to us, ‘Have you any idea what that ridiculous mass of building cost me?’ And one said one sum, and another said another; and then the old gentleman laughed out and said, ‘Ay, ay, you may guess as long as you please, but you will never hit the mark, for upon my word I don’t know myself: for, in fact, before it was half finished, I was so much ashamed of my folly, I endeavoured to avoid knowing the amount of the expense.’ And thus quite in good-humor and high spirits did the old gentleman continue till it was past eleven o’clock, and even then he would hardly suffer us to take leave of him. The next morning I called to see him, and he was quite as well as ever, and did not take any notice of what had passed the day before; he only said, ‘Well, Mr. Denver, I am going down to Trimmerstone to inspect the repairs at the hall; but I will take care not to make such a fool’s hutch as that great house over the way.’ After I had been gone about an hour or more, a messenger came to fetch me again to go up to the cottage. Then I found Mr. Martindale extremely ill; a violent paralysis had seized him, and he was nearly speechless. It was with the utmost difficulty that he could be understood. Mr. Price was there, and was really as much affected as if it had been his own father. It was absolutely impossible to take any commands from Mr. Martindale himself, and Mr. Price thought it best to apprise his relations of the danger in which he was lying. For this purpose he despatched immediately a letter to Sir Andrew Featherstone, that he might gradually break the affair to them. But that letter had been scarcely sent off, when poor Mr. Martindale had a second attack, and in less than an hour he ceased to live. It is impossible for me to express what I felt upon this occasion. The language which he had used to me on the preceding day occurred so forcibly to my mind, it seemed as though it were quite prophetic.”