Letitia did not trust herself to speak, but she nodded her head in assent. “Poor boy, poor boy!” cried John; “and poor Mary,” he added after a moment, with a broken voice. “It will be nothing to her,” said Mrs. Parke briefly. “God knows! it may rouse her to understand what she’s losing: the finest, promising boy, the most generous and patient----” “Oh, John, I cannot put up with you!” cried Letitia, wild with agitation and excitement. “The one creature that stood between your son and his birthright--between you and everything you have looked for all your life.” John Parke walked about the room in an agitation which was not simple as his emotions generally were. His heart was wrung for the patient boy who had grown up under his eye--but perhaps to forget all that this boy’s death would bring him was impossible. He stamped his foot on the ground as if to crush those horrible thoughts that would arise. “If I could buy little Mar’s life with the sacrifice of everything!” he said, with an almost hysterical break in his voice---- “It is easy saying so,” she said; “but for my part Duke is more to me than Mar!” CHAPTER XL. “Then, I suppose, there is scarcely any hope,” said Mr. Blotting, the other executor who had come over to inquire after the patient. The country altogether was moved for poor Mar. People who had never seen the boy sent daily to inquire after him, and the farmers, who had cheered his speech, talked of him and shook their heads as they met on their market days. “There was no stuff in him,” they said; “all spirit, and nothing to ballast it.” “No constitution from his cradle.” And they began to speculate on what kind of landlord John Parke would be when he acted for himself with full power. They all gave a regret to the boy; but that was the most important question after all. John Parke had not, however, waited, as his wife suggested, to take measures to amend the cottages, where Mar had got what was probably to be his death, and it was while they were walking across the park to inspect the miserable little hamlet which was close to one of the gates that Mr. Blotting had supposed that there was scarcely any hope. “My wife has been told to write for his mother,” said John, very seriously. “Barker would not take such a step as that, in the circumstances, if he did not think it was coming very near.” “Poor Lady Frogmore,” said Mr. Blotting, “perhaps it’s better for her, poor thing, now, that she has known so little about him--though so unnatural for a mother.” “I wonder,” said John, “whether this blow may not stir everything up and awaken her when it’s too late.” “It’s to be hoped not, now,” said Mr. Blotting, “poor lady!” And he added after a pause, “It will make a great change in your position, Parke. It may be bad taste talking of it--but we can’t help thinking of it. It must be in your mind as it is in mine.”