"Milly," muttered the sick man.
"What? Mills!—the mills go with the lands, Sir Reginald?"
"He means Miss Mildred Dutton," eagerly interposed Wycherly, though with sufficient modesty.
"Yes—right—right," added the testator. "Little Milly—Milly Dutton—good little Milly."
Sir Gervaise hesitated, and looked round at Bluewater, as much as to say "this is bringing coals to Newcastle;" but Atwood took the idea, and wrote the bequest, in the usual form.
"'I give and bequeath to Mildred Dutton,'" he read aloud, "'daughter of Francis Dutton of the Royal Navy, the sum of ——' what sum shall I fill the blank with, Sir Wycherly?"
"Three—three—yes, three."
"Hundreds or thousands, my good sir?" asked Sir Gervaise, a little surprised at the amount of the bequest.
"Guineas—three—thousand—guineas—five per cents."
"That's as plain as logarithms. Give the young lady three thousand guineas in the fives, Atwood."