No man plumed himself on good blood more than Dr Thorne; no man had greater pride in his genealogical tree, and his hundred and thirty clearly descendant from MacAdam; no man had a stronger theory as to the advantage held by men who have grandfathers over those who have none, or have none worth talking about.  Let it not be thought that our doctor was a perfect character.  No, indeed; most far from perfect.  He had within him an inner, stubborn, self-admiring pride, which made him believe himself to be better and higher than those around him, and this from some unknown cause which he could hardly explain to himself.  He had a pride in being a poor man of a high family; he had a pride in repudiating the very family of which he was proud; and he had a special pride in keeping his pride silently to himself.  His father had been a Thorne, his mother a Thorold.  There was no better blood to be had in England.  It was in the possession of such properties as these that he condescended to rejoice; this man, with a man’s heart, a man’s courage, and a man’s humanity!  Other doctors round the county had ditch-water in their veins; he could boast of a pure ichor, to which that of the great Omnium family was but a muddy puddle.  It was thus that he loved to excel his brother practitioners, he who might have indulged in the pride of excelling them both in talent and in energy!  We speak now of his early days; but even in his maturer life, the man, though mellowed, was the same.

This was the man who now promised to take to his bosom as his own child a poor bastard whose father was already dead, and whose mother’s family was such as the Scatcherds!  It was necessary that the child’s history should be known to none.  Except to the mother’s brother it was an object of interest to no one.  The mother had for some short time been talked of; but now that the nine-days’ wonder was a wonder no longer.  She went off to her far-away home; her husband’s generosity was duly chronicled in the papers, and the babe was left untalked of and unknown.

It was easy to explain to Scatcherd that the child had not lived.  There was a parting interview between the brother and sister in the jail, during which with real tears and unaffected sorrow, the mother thus accounted for the offspring of her shame.  Then she started, fortunate in her coming fortunes; and the doctor took with him his charge to the new country in which they were both to live.  There he found for her a fitting home till she should be old enough to sit at his table and live in his bachelor house; and no one but old Mr Gresham knew who she was, or whence she had come.

Then Roger Scatcherd, having completed his six months’ confinement, came out of prison.

Roger Scatcherd, though his hands were now red with blood, was to be pitied.  A short time before the days of Henry Thorne’s death he had married a young wife in his own class of life, and had made many resolves that henceforward his conduct should be such as might become a married man, and might not disgrace the respectable brother-in-law he was about to have given him such was his condition when he first heard of his sister’s plight.  As has been said, he filled himself with drink and started off on the scent of blood.