The surgeon looked very queer and gloomy down upon the table, and scratched his head, and he mumbled gruffly—­

‘You see—­you know—­’tis a large fee, to be sure; but then—­’

‘Come, Sir,’ said Dangerfield, looking as though he’d pull him by the ear; ’it is a large fee, and you’ll get no more—­you should not stick at trifles, when there’s—­a—­a—­justice and humanity—­and, to be brief, Sir—­yes or no?’

‘Yes,’ answered the doctor; ‘but how’s the fee secured?’

‘Hey!  I’d forgot.  Right, Sir—­you shall be satisfied.’

And he took a pen, and wrote on the back of a letter—­

* * * * *

’SIR—­Considering the hopeless condition in which Dr. Sturk now lies, and the vast importance of restoring him, Dr. Sturk, of the R.I.A., to the power of speech, even for a few minutes, I beg to second Mrs. Sturk’s request to you; and when you shall have performed the critical operation she desires, I hereby promise, whether it succeed or fail, to give you a fee of five hundred guineas. 
                                        PAUL DANGERFIELD. 
   ‘The Brass Castle, Chapelizod.’

And he dated it, and handed it to the surgeon, who read it through, and then looked with a gruff hesitation at the writer.

’Oh, you’ve only to enquire—­anyone who knows Chapelizod will tell you who I am; and you’ll want something—­eh?—­to take you out of this—­how much?’

’Only seven guineas.  There’s a little score here, and some fees.  Eighteen will cover everything, unless something has come in this morning.’

So they went to ‘the Hatch,’ and made enquiries, and all being well, Mr. Dangerfield dealt liberally with the surgeon, who promised to be in attendance at Dr. Sturk’s house in Chapelizod, at seven o’clock next evening.

‘And pray, Dr. Dillon, come in a coach,’ said Dangerfield, ’and in costume—­you understand.  They’ve been accustomed, you know, to see Pell and other doctors who make a parade.’

And with these injunctions they parted; and the surgeon, whose luggage was trifling, jumped into a coach with it, and jingled home to his den and his liberty.

CHAPTER LXXXIV.

IN WHICH CHRISTIANA GOES OVER; AND DAN LOFTUS COMES HOME.

This evening Lily Walsingham was early tired and very weak, Sally thought, and more glad than usual to lie down in her bed; and there her old and loving nurse fancied that she looked a little strange, and that her thoughts sometimes wandered.

She lay very quietly for a good while, and suddenly, with a beautiful look, and in a clear, glad voice, she said—­

‘Mother!’

And old Sally said—­

‘There’s no one, dear Miss Lily, but me.’

But she was looking earnestly, and, with a wrapt smile, only said—­

‘Oh!’

She thought she saw her, I believe.