‘Well,’ he said, as he gave back the letter to Frank.

Well! what did well mean?  Was it well? or would it be well were he, Frank, to comply with the suggestion made to him by Mary?

‘It is impossible,’ he said, ’that matters should go on like that.  Think what her sufferings must have been before she wrote that.  I am sure she loves me.’

‘I think she does,’ said the doctor.

’And it is out of the question that she should be sacrificed; nor will I consent to sacrifice my own happiness.  I am quite willing to work for my bread, and I am sure that I am able.  I will not submit to—­Doctor, what answer do you think I ought to give to that letter?  There can be no person so anxious for her happiness as you are—­except myself.’  And as he asked the question, he again put into the doctor’s hands, almost unconsciously, the letter which he had still been holding in his own.

The doctor turned it over and over, and then opened it again.

‘What answer ought I to make to it?’ demanded Frank, with energy.

’You see, Frank, I have never interfered in this matter, otherwise than to tell you the whole truth about Mary’s birth.’

‘Oh, but you must interfere:  you should say what you think.’

’Circumstanced as you are now—­that is, just at the present moment—­you could hardly marry immediately.’

’Why not let me take a farm?  My father could, at any rate, manage a couple of thousand pounds or so for me to stock it.  That would not be asking much.  If he could not give it me, I would not scruple to borrow so much elsewhere.’  And Frank bethought him of all Miss Dunstable’s offers.

‘Oh, yes; that could be managed.’

’Then why not marry immediately; say in six months or so?  I am not unreasonable; though, Heaven knows, I have been kept in suspense long enough.  As for her, I am sure she must be suffering frightfully.  You know her best, and, therefore, I ask you what answer I ought to make:  as for myself, I have made up my own mind; I am not a child, nor will I let them treat me as such.’

Frank, as he spoke, was walking rapidly about the room; and he brought out his different positions, one after the other, with a little pause, while waiting for the doctor’s answer.  The doctor was sitting, with the letter still in his hands, on the head of the sofa, turning over in his mind the apparent absurdity of Frank’s desire to borrow two thousand pounds for a farm, when, in all human probability, he might in a few months be in possession of almost any sum he should choose to name.  And yet he would not tell him of Sir Roger’s will.  ’If it should turn out to be all wrong?’ said he to himself.

‘Do you wish me to give her up?’ said Frank, at last.

’No.  How can I wish it?  How can I expect a better match for her?  Besides, Frank, I love no man in the world so well as I do you.’

‘Then will you help me?’