"So, so! one should get out this fine weather when one can: wish my legs were as young to get over the ground as they used to be. I want you to go to the vicarage, child, and take a letter to Kettle that I've had here these few days. It's about the votes for the Incurables, and it's time it was attended to. Tell him he must see to it for me and fill it up. Mind you are with him before ten o'clock, and then he'll not be gone out." "Yes, uncle. I will be sure to go." "And look here, lassie," added the Squire; "if you like to stay the morning with Maria, you can. I shan't want you; I shall be pottering about here half the day." Having thus got rid of his niece, the coast was clear for Dr. Spreckley. True to his time, the Doctor drove up in his ramshackle old gig. "You are better this morning; considerably better," he said to his patient after a quiet examination. "That was a nasty attack, and I hope we shan't have any more of them for a long time to come." "I was worse, Doctor, than even you knew of," said Mr. Denison. "The wind of the grave blew colder on me yesterday evening than it has ever blown before. Another such bout, and out I shall go, like the snuff of a candle. Eh, now, come?" "We must hope that you won't have another such bout, Squire," was Dr. Spreckley's cheerful answer. "Is there nothing you can prescribe, or do, Doctor, that will guarantee me against another such attack?" asked Mr. Denison, with almost startling suddenness. Dr. Spreckley put down the phial he had taken in his hand, and faced his patient. "I should be a knave, Squire, to say that I could guarantee you against anything. We can only do our best and hope for the best." Mr. Denison was silent for a few moments, then he began again. "Look here, Spreckley; you know my age--on the twenty-fourth of next April I shall be seventy years old. You know, too, what interests are at stake, and how much depends upon my living to see that day." "I am not likely to forget," said the Doctor. "These are matters that we have talked over many a time." "Do you believe in your heart, Spreckley, that I shall live to see that day--the twenty-fourth of next April?" The question was put very solemnly, and the sick man craned his long neck forward and stared at the Doctor with wild hungry eyes, as though his salvation depended on the next few words. The physician's ruddy cheek lost somewhat of its colour as he hesitated. He fidgeted nervously with his feet, he coughed behind his hand, and then he turned and faced his patient. The signs had not been lost on the Squire. "Really, my dear sir, your question is a most awkward one," said Spreckley, slowly, "and one which I am far from feeling sure that I am in a position to answer with any degree of accuracy."