"No, no, master; give me a guinea for my fish, but don't give me a guinea for doing no more than I ought to do. Give it to the poor boy for loss of time. I've got some good fish, and you may have some to-morrow morning; but the fiends would torment me all night, if I went to my hammock with a guinea for my reward. No, doctor, no. I thank you, too; but tell me the boy will do well, and I'm well paid for my pains." "He will do well, I think, Robin, if his mind be not disturbed." The doctor felt, as perhaps the reader will, that the honest old fisherman, bewitched and bewildered as he was, had more good feeling about him than many a man of clearer head and a less scrupulous conscience, who would have crept along the mud to pick up a guinea for his dirty pocket. "Well, well, my boy, I shall not find such an odd fish in your boat as your own self. You may bring up your basket to my door, and my daughter will deal with you. Instead of a guinea, I must give you any charm that you can ask me for." "Keep to that, doctor, and I'll ask you soon to give me one that I stand much in need of, and which you only can furnish me with. You are surgeon to the gaol, and I want something out of that place. I'll tell you, one of these days, what it is. My boat is now high and dry upon the shore. You might ask some of the landsmen here to lend me a hand to get her off. I shall be in Ipswich as soon as yourself." No sooner was the request made than it was granted; and Robin and five or six good stout fellows were on the shore, and soon shoved the boat off, which, quicker than the men could walk upon the sand, moved on her native element to the well-timed stroke of the able fisherman. The doctor's first introduction to the flying Margaret is well known to the reader. His knowledge of her under those circumstances made him feel for her; but there were some questions he wished to put to her, as his curiosity had been excited by what Robin had revealed. The farmer had already given him some hint about her confessions; but the doctor wanted to find out whether, after what had taken place that night, the tide of her affections might not have turned a little toward his patient. It was a delicate question to ask, but he thought he would find it out by another plan; so he desired to see Margaret in the parlour before he left the house. "I did not half like your look, my girl, when I first saw you to-night. Come hither; let me feel your pulse: let me look at your tongue. Your pulse is quick, and you've some fever hanging about you." "I thank you, sir, I shall be better to-morrow. I'm very sorry for what has happened." "You could not help it, my girl--you could not help it; it was not your fault." "I don't know that, sir,--I don't know that. I blame myself much; but--but--" "But you don't like to blame anybody else, Margaret; I know you." "Well, sir, that's the truth; but yet he was to blame." "Who? Barry?" "No, sir, no; but he who shot him."