“Humph!” said Tom, after a while.  “Well, she is old enough to choose for herself.  Five-and-twenty she must be by now....  As for the stage, I suppose it is the best place for her; better, at least, than turning governess, and going mad, as she would do, over her drudgery and her dreams.  But who is this friend?  Singing-master, scribbler, or political refugee? or perhaps all three together?  A dark lot, those fellows.  I must keep my eye on him; though it’s no concern of mine.  I’ve done my duty by the poor thing; the devil himself can’t deny that.  But, somehow, if this play-writing worthy plays her false, I feel very much as if I should be fool enough to try whether I have forgotten my pistol-shooting.”

CHAPTER VI.

AN OLD FOE WITH A NEW FACE.

“This child’s head is dreadfully hot; and how yellow he does look!” says Mrs. Vavasour, fussing about in her little nursery.  “Oh, Clara, what shall I do?  I really dare not give them any more medicine myself; and that horrid old Doctor Heale is worse than no one.”

“Ah, ma’am,” says Clara, who is privileged to bemoan herself, and to have sad confidences made to her, “if we were but in town now, to see Mr. Chilvers, or any one that could be trusted; but in this dreadful out-of-the-way place—­”

“Don’t talk of it, Clara!  Oh, what will become of the poor children?” And Mrs. Vavasour sits down and cries, as she does three times at least every week.

“But indeed, ma’am, if you thought you could trust him, there is that new assistant—­”

“The man who was saved from the wreck?  Why, nobody knows who he is.”

“Oh, but indeed, ma’am, he is a very nice gentleman, I can say that; and so wonderfully clever; and has cured so many people already, they say, and got down a lot of new medicines (for he has great friends among the doctors in town), and such a wonderful magnifying glass, with which he showed me himself, as I dropped into the shop promiscuous, such horrible things, ma’am, in a drop of water, that I haven’t dared hardly to wash my face since.”

“And what good will the magnifying glass do to us?” says the poor little Irish soul, laughing up through its tears.  “He won’t want it to see how ill poor Frederick is, I’m sure; but you may send for him, Clara.”

“I’ll go myself, ma’am, and make sure,” says Clara; glad enough of a run, and chance of a chat with the young Doctor.

And in half an hour Mr. Thurnall is announced.

Though Mrs. Vavasour has a flannel apron on (for she will wash the children herself, in spite of Elsley’s grumblings), Tom sees that she is a lady; and puts on, accordingly, his very best manner, which, as his experience has long since taught him, is no manner at all.

He does his work quietly and kindly, and bows himself out.

“You will be sure to send the medicine immediately, Mr. Thurnall.”