The memoir of Sir Roger Scatcherd was progressing favourably.  In this it was told how fortunate had been his life; now, in his case, industry and genius combined had triumphed over the difficulties which humble birth and deficient education had thrown in his way; how he had made a name among England’s great men; how the Queen had delighted to honour him, and nobles had been proud to have him as a guest at their mansions.  Then followed a list of all the great works which he had achieved, of the railroads, canals, docks, harbours, jails, and hospitals which he had constructed.  His name was held up as an example to the labouring classes of his countrymen, and he was pointed at as one who had lived and died happy—­ever happy, said the biographer, because ever industrious.  And so a great moral question was inculcated.  A short paragraph was devoted to his appearance in Parliament; and unfortunate Mr Romer was again held up for disgrace, for the thirtieth time, as having been the means of depriving our legislative councils of the great assistance of Sir Roger’s experience.

‘Sir Roger,’ said the biographer in his concluding passage, ’was possessed of an iron frame; but even iron will yield to the repeated blows of the hammer.  In the latter years of his life he was known to overtask himself; and at length the body gave way, though the mind remained firm to the last.  The subject of this memoir was only fifty-nine when he was taken from us.’

And thus Sir Roger’s life was written, while the tears were yet falling on his pillow at Boxall Hill.  It was a pity that a proof-sheet could not have been sent to him.  No man was vainer of his reputation, and it would have greatly gratified him to know that posterity was about to speak of him in such terms—­to speak of him with a voice that would be audible for twenty-four hours.

Sir Roger made no further attempt to give counsel to his son.  It was too evidently useless.  The old dying lion felt that the lion’s power had already passed from him, and that he was helpless in the hands of the young cub who was so soon to inherit the wealth of the forest.  But Dr Thorne was more kind to him.  He had something yet to say as to his worldly hopes and worldly cares; and his old friend did not turn a deaf ear to him.

It was during the night that Sir Roger was most anxious to talk, and most capable of talking.  He would lie through the day in a state half-comatose; but towards evening would rouse himself, and by midnight he would be full of fitful energy.  One night, as he lay wakeful and full of thought, he thus poured forth his whole heart to Dr Thorne.

‘Thorne,’ said he, ‘I told you about my will, you know.’

‘Yes,’ said the other; ’and I have blamed myself greatly that I have not again urged you to alter it.  Your illness came too suddenly, Scatcherd; and then I was averse to speak of it.’

’Why should I alter it?  It is a good will; as good as I can make.  Not but that I have altered it since I spoke to you.  I did it that day after you left me.’