“So I still think; but so long as the notion of her recovery exists, even only as a dream, so certainly ought we to provide against such a calamity.”

“Ah!  Harry,” she exclaimed, “you may well term it a calamity, for such indeed it would be to you.”

“Well, but what do you think ought to be done, my dear mother?  I am anxious to have both your advice and opinion upon our future proceedings.  Suppose change of air—­the waters of that damned brimstone spring, and above all things, the confidence she will derive from the consciousness that she is removed from me and out of my reach—­suppose, I say, that all these circumstances should produce a beneficial effect upon her, then how do I stand?”

“Why, with very little hope of the property,” she replied; “and then what tenacity of life she has!  Why, there are very few girls who would not have been dead long ago, if they had gone through half what she has suffered.  Well, you wish to ask me how I would advise you to act?”

“Of course I do.”

“Well, then, you have heard the old proverb:  It is good to have two strings to one’s bow.  We shall set all consideration of her aside for a time, and turn our attention to another object.”

“What or who is that, mother?”

“You remember I mentioned some time ago the names of a neighboring nobleman and his niece, who lives with him.  The man I allude to as Lord Bilberry, but is now Earl of Cockletown.  He was raised to this rank for some services he rendered the government against the tories, who had been devastating the country, and also against some turbulent papists who were supposed to have privately encouraged them in their outrages against Protestant life and property.  He was a daring and intrepid man when in his prime of life, and appeared to seek danger for its own sake.  He is now an old man, although a young peer, and was always considered eccentric, which he is to the present day.  Some people look upon him as a fool, and others as a knave; but in balancing his claims to each, it has never yet been determined on which side the scale would sink.  He is the proprietor of a little fishing village on the coast, and on this account he assumed the title of Cockletown; and when he built himself a mansion, as they term it, he would have it called by no other name than that of Cockle Hall.  It is true he laughs at the thing himself, and considers it a good joke.”

“And so it is,” replied her son; “but what about the lady, his niece?”

“Why, she is a rather interesting person.”

“Ahem! person!”

“Yes, about thirty-four or so; but she will inherit his property.”

“And have you any notion of what that may amount to?” asked her calculating son.

“I could not exactly say,” she replied; “but I believe it is handsome.  A great deal of it is mountain, but they say there are large portions of it capable of being reclaimed.”