"Davenport!" ejaculated Mr. Thornton, in a wandering tone, "Davenport! He did not trespass against me; but his wife did. She spat at me--she called me villain, and scoundrel--said she would tell her husband all. I recollect how he looked when he died. She could not have told him, Uncle Jack, for there was no time; yet he looked very much as if he thought I had done something. It was a bitter, reproachful sort of look. But I say, uncle, do you think that we are obliged to forgive those who have never trespassed against us as well as those who have? That's the question." The man's mind was evidently beginning to wander, and Mr. Wheatley entered the room without further ceremony. "Ah, doctor," cried the wounded man, turning round in the bed as soon as he heard a step; but when his eyes fell upon Mr. Wheatley, a strange and fearful change came upon his countenance. When he first turned it, it was not only as usual, red from long habits of somewhat excessive drinking, but apparently flushed with fever. When he beheld Mr. Wheatley, however, the colour changed in a moment to a cadaverous white, with here and there a bluish spot; neither did it resume its former hue: the effect was permanent, and he remained looking more like a dead man than a living one. Wheatley saw the change which had taken place; and, advancing to his bed-side, he spoke kindly to him, and in a cheerful tone. "Ah, Mr. Thornton," he said, "I am sorry to see you ill. I came over to inquire after you, and try if we could not settle that little matter between you and me amicably." "Who is that man?" said Mr. Thornton, glaring at me, as I stood a little behind my friend. "I have seen him before. It can't be Richard Conway come out of the Chesapeake--he is very like him." "No, no," said Mr. Wheatley. "He's been dead near twenty years." "Ay," said Mr. Thornton, gloomily, "he's rotten enough by this time." "Just try to gather your thoughts together," said Mr. Wheatley; "and see if we can't arrange this matter about the thirty thousand dollars quietly. I think we can; for as to my share of the matter, I can wait; and as for Griswold's, I have a proposal to make to you." "Uncle Jack," said Mr. Thornton, in a low voice, "give me a tumbler full of whisky--make haste, man, I feel faint. There's the bottle by the bed-side." With evident reluctance, the old negro found out the spirit, and the dying man drank it off at a draught. It seemed to revive him a little, but it made no change in his colour. "A proposal!" he said, in a stronger voice. "What proposal? I cant pay you the first cent. I have been disappointed in the money I expected; that's the long and the short of it. As to the estate, you can't touch that; for that's settled upon Robert long ago." He had forgotten that his son was dead; but it seemed suddenly to flash upon his recollection, for he paused and put his hand to his head, stammering forth,-- "I forgot, I forgot. A proposal! what proposal?"