The Mumpsimus men, it appeared, had “sent round the hat” for him, and here were the results; and they would send the hat round again every month, if he wanted it; or, if he would come up, board, lodge, and wash him gratis.  The great Doctor Bellairs, House Physician, and Carver, the famous operator (names at which Heale bowed his head and worshipped), sent compliments, condolences, offers of employment—­never was so triumphant a testimonial; and Heale, in his simplicity, thought himself (as indeed he was) the luckiest of country doctors; while Mrs. Heale, after swelling and choking for five minutes, tottered into the back room, and cast herself on the sofa in violent hysterics.

As she came round again, Tom could not but overhear a little that passed.  And this he overheard among other matters:—­

“Yes, Mr. Heale, I see, I see too well, which your natural blindness, sir, and that fatal easiness of temper, will bring you to a premature grave within the paupers’ precincts; and this young designing infidel, with his science and his magnifiers, and his callipers, and philosophy falsely so called, which in our true Protestant youth there was none, nor needed none, to supplant you in your old age, and take the bread out of your grey hairs, which he will bring with sorrow to the grave, and mine likewise, which am like my poor infant here, of only too sensitive sensibilities!  Oh, Anna Maria, my child, my poor lost child! which I can feel for the tenderness of the inexperienced heart!  My Virgin Eve, which the Serpent has entered into your youthful paradise, and you will find; alas! too late, that you have warmed an adder into your bosom!”

“Oh, Ma, how indelicate!” giggled Anna Maria, evidently not displeased.  “If you don’t mind he will hear you, and I should never be able to look him in the face again.”  And therewith she looked round to the glass door.

What more passed, Tom did not choose to hear; for he began making all the bustle he could in the shop, merely saying to himself,—­

“That flood of eloquence is symptomatic enough:  I’ll lay my life the old dame knows her way to the laudanum bottle.”

Tom’s next business was to ingratiate himself with the young curate.  He had found out already, cunning fellow, that any extreme intimacy with Headley would not increase his general popularity; and, as we have seen already, he bore no great affection to “the cloth” in general:  but the curate was an educated gentleman, and Tom wished for some more rational conversation than that of the Lieutenant and Heale.  Besides, he was one of those men, with whom the possession of power, sought at first from self-interest, has become a passion, a species of sporting, which he follows for its own sake, To whomsoever he met he must needs apply the moral stethoscope; sound him, lungs, heart, and liver; put his tissues under the microscope, and try conclusions on him to the uttermost.  They might be useful hereafter;