"Yes, Miss Gurdon looks very white. I am most grateful to you, Major Gurdon, for the care and attention I have received in this house." "Then prove it, sir," said the Major sternly. "I will," said Clive, with not a muscle moving. "I will do so by releasing your daughter from an engagement which has become irksome and painful to her." "What!" "From any ties which held her to a kind of bankrupt--to a man broken in health, pocket, and his belief in human nature." "Mr Clive Reed," began the Major haughtily. "No: Clive, my dear boy, you are sick and look at things from a jaundiced point of view. Don't talk nonsense. You will think differently in a week." "Never," said Clive firmly. "All that, sir, is at an end." "And pray why?" cried the Major. "When that attachment sprang up we believed you to be a poor man. Do you suppose Dinah's love for you came from the idea that you were well-to-do?" "We will not argue that, sir. Your daughter wishes the engagement to be broken off." "Indeed! I'll soon prove that to be false," cried the Major, springing up. "No, sir," cried the Doctor; "there has been enough for one day." But he was too late, for the Major had flung open the door, called "Dinah," loudly, and her foot was already upon the stairs. "You want me, father?" she said as she entered, looking wan and thin, but perfectly quiet and self-contained. "Yes, my child," cried the Major, taking her hand. "Our patient is better, and wants to go away for a change." "Yes, father dear," she said, without glancing at Clive, who kept his eyes averted; "it would be better as soon as he can bear a journey." "But he says that you wish the engagement to be at an end." She bowed her head. "Yes, dear," she said gently, "it is better so." "For the present," cried the Doctor quickly. "For the present that lasts till death," said Clive sternly. And Dinah in acquiescence bowed her head without uttering sob or sigh, but to herself-- "It is the end." CHAPTER FORTY. THE TELEGRAM. "Go on, Doctor, say what you like. I cannot defend myself." "I will go on, sir; I will say what I like, and I will risk its hurting you, for I feel towards you as a father, and it maddens me to see my old friend Grantham's son behaving like a scoundrel towards as sweet and lovable a girl as ever lived." Clive drew a deep breath as they walked slowly along the shelf path towards the mine. "Yes, sir, you may well shrink. I brought you out here for a walk to make you wince. I can talk to you, and say what I like out here without expecting the poor girl and her father to come back and interrupt. Look here, Clive; I'm a cleverish sort of old fellow in my way, and experience has put me up to a good many wrinkles in the treatment of disease, but I tell you frankly it was not I, but Dinah Gurdon, who saved your life by her nursing." "I suppose so," said Clive, with a sigh. "Then why the deuce, sir, do you go on like this and break the poor girl's heart?"