"I have told Frank so, and I think that you should tell Mary. Frank means to take some land into his hand, and he must farm it as a farmer. I will endeavour to give him three, or perhaps four hundred a year. But you know better—"
"Stop, squire; stop a minute. We will talk about that presently. This death of poor Sir Louis will make a difference."
"Not permanently," said the squire mournfully.
"And now, Frank," said the doctor, not attending to the squire's last words, "what do you say?"
"What do I say? I say what I said to you in London the other day. I believe Mary loves me; indeed, I won't be affected—I know she does. I have loved her—I was going to say always; and, indeed, I almost might say so. My father knows that this is no light fancy of mine. As to what he says about our being poor, why—"
The doctor was very arbitrary, and would hear neither of them on this subject.
"Mr Gresham," said he, interrupting Frank, "of course I am well aware how very little suited Mary is by birth to marry your only son."
"It is too late to think about it now," said the squire.
"It is not too late for me to justify myself," replied the doctor. "We have long known each other, Mr Gresham, and you said here the other day, that this is a subject as to which we have been both of one mind. Birth and blood are very valuable gifts."
"I certainly think so," said the squire; "but one can't have everything."