Patty and I had many a quiet laugh over his predicament.  And, to add zest to the situation, I informed Singleton of what was going forward.  He came over every night for supper, and to my delight the bluff Englishman was received in a fashion to make the doctor writhe and snort with mortification.  Never in his life had he been so insignificant a person.  And he, whose conversation was so sought after in the gay season in town, was thrown for companionship upon a scarce-grown boy whose talk was about as salted, and whose intellect as great, as those of the cockerouse in our fable.  He stood it about a se’nnight, at the end of which space Philip was put on his horse, will-he-nill-he, and made to ride northward.

I sat with my cousin of an evening as he lay in bed.  Not, I own, from any charity on my part, but from other motives which do me no credit.  The first night he confessed his sins, and they edified me not a little.  On the second he was well enough to sit up and swear, and to vow that Miss Swain was an angel; that he would marry her the very next week and his father Grafton were not such a stickler for family.

“Curse him,” says his dutiful and loyal son, “he is so bally stingy with my stipend that I am in debt to half the province.  And I say it myself, Richard, he has been a blackguard to you, tho’ I allow him some little excuse.  You were faring better now, my dear cousin, and you had not given him every reason to hate you.  For I have heard him declare more than once ’pon my soul, I have—­that he would rather you were his friend than his enemy.”

My contempt for Philip kept me silent here.  I might quarrel with Grafton, who had sense enough to feel pain at a well deserved thrust.  Philip had not the intelligence to recognize insult from compliment.  It was but natural he should mistake my attitude now.  He leaned forward in his bed.

“Hark you, Richard,” whispers he, with a glance at the door, “I might tell you some things and I chose, and—­and it were worth my while.”

“Worth your while?” I repeated vaguely.

He traced nervously the figures on the counterpane.  Next came a rush of anger to redden his face.

“By Gad, I will tell you.  Swear to Gad I will.”  Then, the little cunning inherited from his father asserting itself, he added, “Look you, Richard, I am the son of one of the richest men in the colony, and I get the pittance of a backwoods pastor.  I tell you ’tis not to be borne with.  And I am not of as much consideration at the Hall as Brady, the Irish convict, who has become overseer.”

I little wondered at this.  Philip sank back, and for some moments eyed me between narrowed lids.  He continued presently with shortened breath: 

“I have evidence—­I have evidence to get you back a good share of the estate, which my father will never miss.  And I will do it,” he cries, suddenly bold, “I will do it for three thousand pounds down when you receive it.”