‘Well!’ said Dr Thorne.

’I suppose it must be so, doctor.  He has set his heart upon it, and God knows, I have nothing to say against her—­against her personally.  No one could say a word against her.  She is a sweet, good girl, excellently brought up; and, as for myself, I have always loved her.’  Frank drew near to his father, and pressed his hand against the squire’s arm, by way of giving him, in some sort, a filial embrace for his kindness.

‘Thank you, squire, thank you,’ said the doctor.  ’It is very good of you to say that.  She is a good girl, and if Frank chooses to take her, he will, in my estimation, have made a good choice.’

‘Chooses!’ said Frank, with all the enthusiasm of a lover.

The squire felt himself perhaps a little ruffled at the way in which the doctor received his gracious intimation; but he did now show it as he went on.  ‘They cannot, you know, doctor, look to be rich people—­’

‘Ah! well, well,’ interrupted the doctor.

’I have told Frank so, and I think that you should tell Mary.  Frank means to take some land into his hand, and he must farm it as a farmer.  I will endeavour to give him three, or perhaps four hundred a year.  But you know better—­’

’Stop, squire; stop a minute.  We will talk about that presently.  This death of poor Sir Louis will make a difference.’

‘Not permanently,’ said the squire mournfully.

‘And now, Frank,’ said the doctor, not attending to the squire’s last words, ‘what do you say?’

’What do I say?  I say what I said to you in London the other day.  I believe Mary loves me; indeed, I won’t be affected—­I know she does.  I have loved her—­I was going to say always; and, indeed, I almost might say so.  My father knows that this is no light fancy of mine.  As to what he says about our being poor, why—­’

The doctor was very arbitrary, and would hear neither of them on the subject.

‘Mr Gresham,’ said he, interrupting Frank, ’of course I am well aware how very little suited Mary is by birth to marry your only son.’

‘It is too late to think about that now,’ said the squire.

‘It is not too late for me to justify myself,’ replied the doctor.  ’We have long known each other, Mr Gresham, and you said here the other day, that this is a subject as to which we have been of one mind.  Birth and blood are very valuable gifts.’

‘I certainly think so,’ said the squire; ’but one can’t have everything.’

‘No; one can’t have everything.’

‘If I am satisfied in that matter—­’ began Frank.

‘Stop a moment, my dear boy,’ said the doctor.  ’As your father says, one can’t have everything.  My dear friend—­’ and he gave his hand to the squire—­’do not be angry if I alluded for a moment to the estate.  It has grieved me to see it melting away—­the old family acres that have so long been the heritage of the Greshams.’