"Then you shall tell him—the entire story—at your leisure. Meanwhile I'll begin at the wrong end. I told you I'd made a picture of the hated cousins, of the heirs-at-law, these sorrowing chief mourners. Well, having made a picture of them that's proved true, I'll make a prophecy about them, and I'll bet you it proves just as true."
"Go on," said Mary. "Listen, Mr. Naylor," she added, with a squeeze of the old man's arm.
"You're like a couple of naughty children!" he said, with an affectionate look and laugh.
"Well, my prophecy is that they'll swear the poor dear old man's estate at under five thousand."
"Well, why shouldn't——?" old Naylor began; but he stopped as he saw Mary's eyes meet Beaumaroy's in a rapture of quick and delighted understanding.
"And then perhaps you'll own to being sorry, Doctor Mary!"
"So that's what you were up to, was it?" said Mary.