"That I never denied. There could not be a better one."
"But suddenly, after no Christmas festivities (for he would hear of none, for the sake of your dear mother), he was found on the morning of the last day in the year bolt upright in his study chair, and fully dressed, with two pistols, loaded and cocked, on the table, no sign of life in his face or pulse, his body stiff yet limp, like a sand-bag tightly stuffed. The man who found him described it better than I can. 'Poor master, whichever way I put him, there he stop, like a French dog doing tricks.''
"How terrible!"
"Yes, but it was true. At first they thought it was catalepsy only; but when that passed off, paralysis remained. I wanted to send for you at once."
Here she met, for she could not help it, but did not answer, my gaze; and I knew it was a lie.
"However, I was over-ruled; and your poor uncle lay bed-ridden, but in no actual danger, until this horrid low fever came. He must have a frame of iron to have borne up as he has. The doctor says this fever is partly from the prostration of the nerves."
"Who is the doctor?" I felt almost as if I could love my uncle.
"A very eminent man. His name is Churchyard."
"That is not our old medical man. Where does this gentleman come from?"
"Cheltenham, I believe."