"What! I say it was her fault, so don't you defend her. Confound you, sir, I know you've grown into a big, ugly, consequential fellow; but recollect this, sir, I consider I take your father's place now he's gone. I'm the first man who ever held you in his hands. Didn't I vaccinate you, and bring you through half-a-dozen miserable little baby disorders? You are Clive Reed, mine-owner and rich man to the world; but you are only the squalling brat and scrubby boy, sir, to me." The Doctor tossed off a glass of his rich claret, and then swung himself round in his chair. "Don't take any notice of what I say, boy. I'm not myself." Clive rose from his chair and went and laid his hand upon the Doctor's shoulder, to have it seized and held. "My dear old friend!" he said, in a low voice. "Thank you, my boy, thank you. God bless you! I seem to have no one but you--now she's gone. Clive, my lad, I'll tell you. I came back here after the funeral and went into the drawing-room, and I turned her picture with its face to the wall, after I'd cursed her like old fathers used to do in the plays when I was a boy. I said I cast her off for ever; and then I sat down in my chair, and did what I hadn't done since her mother, my poor dear wife, died. I cried, boy, like a little child. For it seemed as if she was dead too--dead and gone--and I had suddenly turned into a disappointed, lonely old man." "And then you turned the picture back, and owned to yourself that you loved her very dearly still, as I do, sir. For we cannot tear our affections up by the roots like that." "I did, Clive, my boy, I did; for you are right. I know too now that it's my own fault, for I spoiled and indulged her. She was left to me almost a child, motherless, and I began to treat her at once as a woman. I let her have her own way in everything, and she grew up pettish and jealous, and ready to resent every check. Times and times, when I've offended her, has she gone right off on a visit, just to annoy me, and show how independent she was. But there! it's all over now." "Yes," said Clive softly, "it's all over now." "And how I used to reckon upon it all!" continued the Doctor. "You two married, and the little children springing up--hers and yours, boy, to make my old life young again. But it's all over. I won't say I'll never see her again, but I've done with her; and as for that miserable, cunning, unprincipled scoundrel, how long will it be before he's laid up with D.T., or something worse--if there is anything worse? I'll go and attend him gratis, and pay for his funeral afterwards with pleasure." "No, no, not you," said Clive quietly. "I will, sir; I shall consider it a duty to that poor girl to make her a widow as soon as possible, so that she may live in peace and repent." Clive shook his head. "The man she loves," he said softly.