Or rather, I may say, I read that part of IT which the bleeder and blisterer had flung down. It was but a fragment of a letter—a fragment—oh! how bitter to swallow! A lump of Epsom salt could not have been more disgusting. It appeared (from Bedford’s statement) that Æsculapius, on getting into his gig, had allowed this scrap of paper to whisk out of his pocket—the rest he read, no doubt, under the eyes of the writer. Very likely, during the perusal, he had taken and squeezed the false hand which wrote the lines. Very likely the first part of the _precious document_ contained compliments to him—from the horrible context I judge so—compliments to that vendor of leeches and bandages, into whose heart I daresay I wished ten thousand lancets might be stuck, as I perused the FALSE ONE’S wheedling address to him! So ran the document. How well every word of it was engraven on my anguished heart. If page _three_, which I suppose was about the bit of the letter which I got, was as it was—what must page _one_ and _two_ have been? The dreadful document began, then, thus:— “——dear hair in the locket, which I shall _ever_ wear for the sake of _him who gave it_”—(dear hair! indeed—disgusting carrots! She should have been ashamed to call it “dear hair”)—“for the sake of him who gave it, and whose _bad temper_ I shall pardon, because I think, in spite of his faults, he is a _little fond_ of his poor Lizzie! Ah, Edward! how _could_ you go on so the last time about poor Mr. B.! Can you imagine that I can ever have more than a filial regard for the kind old gentleman?” (_Il était question de moi, ma parole d’honneur._ _I_ was the kind old gentleman!) “I have known him since my childhood. He was intimate in our family in earlier and happier days; made our house his home; and, I must say, was most kind to all of us children. If he has vanities, you naughty boy, is he the only one of his sex who is vain? Can you fancy that such an old creature (an _old muff_, as you call him, you wicked, satirical man!) could ever make an impression on my heart? No, sir!” (Aha! So I was an old muff, was I?) “Though I don’t wish to make _you_ vain too, or that other people should laugh at you, as you do at poor dear Mr. B., I think, sir, you need but look _in your glass_ to see that you need not be afraid of such a rival as _that_. You fancy he is attentive to me? If you looked only a little angrily at him, he would fly back to London. To-day, when your _horrid little patient_ did presume to offer to take my hand, when I boxed his little wicked ears and sent him _spinning_ to the end of the room—poor Mr. Batch was so _frightened_ that he did not _dare_ to come into the room, and I saw him peeping behind a statue on the lawn, and he would not come in until the _servants arrived_. Poor man! We cannot all of us have courage like _a certain Edward_, who I know is as _bold as a lion_. Now, sir, you must not be quarrelling with that wretched little captain for being rude.