“Is the young man courting?” “I believe not.” “Then,” said the doctor sententiously, “the sooner he is, the better for Miss Chadwick. Her life is not worth a month’s purchase unless Mr. Clegg become the buyer. But let not Miss Ellen hear a whisper of my opinion. Good day.” And snatching up his hat the doctor departed, leaving them to their reflections. Here was a delicate subject to be dealt with, and that without either loss of time or the sacrifice of their beloved child’s sensitiveness and reserve. Unknown to Ellen a family conclave assembled under the Mosley Street roof, to discuss the momentous question, and deliberate what was best to be done. Long and grave were their deliberations. At length, taking Mr. Chadwick’s imperfect speech into consideration, Mr. Ashton consented to lay the case before Jabez, and leave his brother-in-law to supplement it, if necessary; though opinions were divided as to the result. It was after business hours, and Mr. Ashton found Jabez in his own room, doing his best to dissipate thought by hard work, mind and hand being busy with a chintz-pattern for calico-printing. There was a nervous plunge into the gold snuff-box, and a consequent flourish of a gay bandana, and some time spent in examining the incomplete design on the desk, before Mr. Ashton could fairly enter on his embassy. After a little prelude, in which, whilst enlarging on the serious nature of his niece’s illness, he elicited from Jabez that he held the young lady in the very highest esteem, and was deeply grieved to hear of her perilous state, he put down his snuff-box on the table before him, and drawing up his chair so as to bring their heads closer together, looked steadfastly into the other’s clear eyes as he put the question— “And what should you think of _love_ as the cause of her malady?” “LOVE!” echoed Jabez, his mind running off to the agonised confession made to him on the Taxal hillside. “Yes, _love_, and for the very man whose merits _my_ foolish child failed to see.” Jabez looked at him vaguely. “Surely not Mr. Marsland!” “Pah! no!” exclaimed Mr. Ashton, as if disgusted at his obtuseness. “Yourself, man—Jabez Clegg.” Jabez fixed his eyes on his informant in blank amazement, a monosyllabic long-drawn “_Me!_” being his sole response. “Just so!” assented Mr. Ashton, and he took a pinch of snuff on the strength of it. “Oh, sir, there must be some mistake! How has this been ascertained? Has Miss Chadwick made——” “No, Clegg, the poor lass has never said one word, except with her eyes and pulse. Dr. Hardie has made the discovery now, and it turns out Mrs. Chadwick suspected it long ago.” “Oh, dear! dear! this is very terrible!” He was estimating the pain in Ellen’s heart by that in his own. “Very terrible indeed, Clegg, for Hardie says the lass’s life is not worth so much as a yard of filleting if her love meet no return.”