"Do you remember the young heir's features, Mark?"
"Ay, I have never forgot them, sir."
"Then look at mine."
There was doubt no longer; and Mark Canham, in his enthusiastic joy forgetting his rheumatism, would almost have gone down on his knees in thankfulness. He brought himself up with a groan. "I be fit for nothing now but to nurse my rheumatiz, sir. And you be the true Rupert Trevlyn—Squire from henceforth? Oh, sir, say it!"
"I am the Squire, Mark. But I came here to see another Rupert Trevlyn—he who will be Squire after me."
Old Mark shook his head. He glanced towards the staircase as he spoke, and dropped his voice to a whisper, as if fearing that it might penetrate to one who was lying above.
"If he don't get better soon, sir, he'll never live to be the Squire. He's very ill. Circumstances have been against him, it can't be denied; but I fear me it was in his constitution from the first to go off, as his father, poor Mr. Joe, went off afore him."
"Nonsense," said the Squire. "We'll get him well again!"
"And what of Chattaway?" asked old Canham. "He'll never forego his vengeance, sir. I have been in mortal fear ever since Master Rupert's been lying here. The fear had selfishness in it, maybe," he added, ingenuously; "for Chattaway'd turn me right off, without a minute's warning, happen he come to know of it. He's never liked my being at the lodge at all, sir; and would have sent me away times and again but for Miss Diana."
"Ah," said the Squire. "Well, it does not rest with him now. What has he allowed you, Mark?"