"you are keeping quality hours, bessy--as our nurse used to say when we were children," was richard north's salutation to his sister as he went in and saw the table laid for breakfast.

mrs. rane laughed. she was busy at work, sewing some buttons on a white waistcoat of her husband's.

"oliver was called out at seven this morning, and has not come back yet," she explained.

"and you are waiting breakfast for him! you must be starving."

"i took some coffee when molly had hers. how is papa, richard?"

"anything but well. very much worried, for one thing."

"madam and matilda are back again, i hear?" continued bessy.

"three days ago. they have brought miss field with them."

"and madam has brought her usual temper, i suppose," added bessy. "no wonder papa is suffering."

"that of course; it will never be otherwise. but he is troubling himself also very much about the works being stopped. i tell him to leave all such trouble to me, but it is of no use."

"when will the strike end, richard?"

richard shook his head. it was an unprofitable theme, and he did not wish to pursue it with bessy. she had sufficient cares of her own, as he suspected, without adding to them. three letters lay on the table, close to where richard was sitting; they were addressed to dr. rane. his fingers began turning them about mechanically, quite in abstraction.

"i know the handwriting of two of them," remarked bessy, possibly fancying he was curious on the point; "not of the third."

"the one is from america," observed richard, looking at the letters for the first time.

"yes; it's from dr. jones. he would like oliver to join him in america."

"to join him for what?" asked richard.

bessy looked at him. she saw no reason why her brother should not be told. dr. rane wished it kept secret from the world; but this, she thought, could not apply to her good and trustworthy richard. she opened her heart and told him all; not what they were going certainly to do, for ways and means were still doubtful, but what they hoped to be able to do. richard, excessively surprised, listened in silence.

they had made up their minds to leave dallory. dr. rane had taken a dislike to the place; and no wonder, bessy added in a parenthesis, when he was not getting on at all. he intended to leave it as soon as the practice was disposed of.

"i expect this letter will decide it," concluded bessy, touching one that bore the london postmark. "it is from a mr. lynch, who is wishing to find a practice in the country on account of his health. london smoke does not do for him, he tells oliver. they have had a good deal of correspondence together, and i know his handwriting quite well. oliver said he expected his decision to-day or tomorrow. he is to pay two hundred pounds and take the furniture at a valuation."

"and then--do i understand you rightly, bessy?--you and rane are going to america?" questioned richard.

"oh no," said bessy with emphasis. "i must have explained badly, richard. what i said was, that dr. jones, who has more practice in america than he knows what to do with, had offered a share of it to oliver if he would join him. oliver declined it. he would have liked to go, for he thinks it must be a very good thing; but dr. jones wants a large premium: so it's out of the question."

"but surely you would not have liked to emigrate, bessy?"

she glanced into richard's face with her meek, loving eyes, blushing a very little.

"i would go anywhere where he goes," she answered simply. "it would cost me pain to leave you and papa, richard; especially papa, because he is old, and because he would feel it; but oliver is my husband."

richard drummed for a minute or two on the table-cloth. bessy sewed on her last button.

"then where does rane think of pitching his tent, bessy?"

"somewhere in london. he says there is no place like it for getting on. should this letter be to say that mr. lynch, takes the practice, we shall be away in less than a month."

"and you have never told us!"

"we decided to say nothing until it was a settled thing, and then only to you, and mrs. cumberland, and papa. oliver does not want the world to know it sooner than need be."

"but do you mean to say that rane has not told his mother?" responded richard to this in some surprise.

"not yet," said bessy, folding the completed waistcoat. "it will be sure to vex her, and perhaps needlessly; for, suppose, after all, we do not go? that entirely depends upon the disposal of the practice here."

bessy was picking up the threads in her neat way, and putting the remaining buttons in the little closed box, when dr. rane was heard to enter his consulting-room. away flew bessy to the kitchen, bringing in the things with her own loving hands--and, for that matter, molly green was at her upstairs work--buttered toast, broiled ham, a dainty dish of stewed mushrooms. there was nothing she liked so much as to wait on her husband. her step was light and soft, her eye bright. richard, looking on, saw how much she cared for him.

dr. rane came in, wiping his brow: the day was hot, and he tired. he had walked from a farm-house a mile beyond the ham. a strangely weary look sat on his face.

"don't trouble, bessy; i have had breakfast. ah, richard, how d'ye do?"

"you have had breakfast!" repeated bessy. "at the farm?"

"yes; they gave me some."

"oh dear! won't you take a bit of the ham, or some of the mushrooms, oliver? they are so good. and i waited."

"i am sorry you should wait. no, i can't eat two breakfasts. you must eat for me and yourself, bessy."

dr. rane sat down in his own chair at the table, turning it towards richard, and took up the letters. selecting the one from mr. lynch, he was about to open it when bessy, who was now beginning her breakfast, spoke.

"oliver, i have told richard about it--what we think of doing?"

dr. rane's glance went out for a moment to his brother-in-law's, and met it. he made the best of the situation, smiled gaily, and put down the letter unopened.

"are you surprised, richard?" he asked.

"very much, indeed. had a stranger told me i was going to leave dallory myself--and, indeed, that may well come to pass, with this strike in the air--i should as soon have believed it. shall you be doing well to go, do you think, rane?"

"am i doing well here?" was the doctor's rejoinder.

"not very, i fear."

"and, with this strike on, it grows worse. the wives and children fall ill, as usual, and i am called in; but the men have no money to pay me with. i don't intend to bring bessy to dry bread, and i think it would come to that if we stayed here----"

"no, no; not quite to that, oliver," she interposed. but he took no notice of her.

"therefore i shall try my fortune elsewhere," continued dr. rane. "and if you would return thanks to the quarter whence the blow has originated, you must pay them to your stepmother, richard. it is she who has driven me away."

richard was silent. dr. rane broke the seal of mr. lynch's letter, and read it to the end. then, laying it down, he took up the one from america, and read that. bessy, looking across, tried to gather some information from his countenance; but dr. rane's face was one which, in an ordinary way, was not more easily read than a stone.

"is it favourable news, oliver?" she asked, as he finished the long letter, and folded it.

"it's nothing particular. jones runs on upon politics. he generally gives me a good dose of them."

"oh, i meant from mr. lynch," replied bessy. "is he coming?"

"mr. lynch declines."

"declines, oliver!"

"declines the negotiation. and he is not much better than a sneak for giving me all this trouble, and then crying off at the eleventh hour," added dr. rane.

"it is bad behaviour," said bessy, warmly. "what excuse does he make?"

"you can see what he says," said dr. rane, pushing the letter towards her. bessy opened it, and read it aloud for the benefit of richard.

mr. lynch took up all one side with apologies. the substance of the letter was, that a practice had unexpectedly been offered to him at the seaside, which he had accepted, as the air and locality would suit his state of health so much better than dallory. if he could be of service in negotiating with any one else, he added, dr. rane was to make use of him.

it was as courteous and explanatory a letter as could be written. but still it was a refusal: and the negotiation was at an end. bessy rane drew a deep breath: whether of relief or disappointment it might have puzzled herself to decide. perhaps it was a mixture of both.

"then, after all, oliver, we shall not be leaving!"

"not at present, it seems," was dr. rane's answer. and he put the two letters into his pocket.

"perhaps you will be thinking again, oliver, of america, now?" said his wife.

"oh no, i shall not."

"does dr. jones still urge you to come?"

"not particularly. he took my refusal as final."

she went on, slowly eating some of the mushrooms. richard said nothing: this projected removal seemed to have impressed him to silence. dr. rane took up the remaining letter and turned it about, looking at the outside.

"do you know the writing, oliver?" his wife asked.

"not at all. the postmark's whitborough."

opening the letter, which appeared to contain only a few lines, dr. rane looked up with an exclamation.

"how strange! how very strange! bessy, you and i are the only two left in the tontine."

"what!" she cried, scarcely understanding him. richard north turned his head.

"that tontine that we were both put into when infants. there was only one life left in it besides ourselves--old massey's son, of whitborough. he is dead."

"what! george massey? dead!" cried richard north.

dr. rane handed him the note. yes: it was even so. the other life had dropped, and oliver rane's and his wife's alone remained.

"my father has called that an unlucky tontine," remarked richard. "i have heard it said that if you want a child to live, you should put it into a tontine, for the tontine lives are sure to arrive at a green old age, to the mutual general mortification. this has been an exception to the rule. i am sorry about george massey. i wonder what he has died of?"

"last long, in general, do you say?" returned dr. rane musingly. "i don't know much about tontines myself."

"neither do i," said richard. "i remember hearing of one tontine when i was a boy: five or six individuals were left in it, all over eighty then, and in flourishing health. perhaps that was why my father and mr. gass took up with one. at any rate, it seems that you and bessy are the only two remaining in this."

"i wonder if a similar condition of things ever existed before as for a man and his wife to be the two last in a tontine?" cried dr. rane, slightly laughing. "bessy, practically it can be of no use to us conjointly; for before the money can be paid, one of us must die. what senseless things tontines are!"

"senseless indeed," answered bessy. "i'd say something to it if we could have the money now. how much is it?"

"ay, by the way, how much is it? what was it that each member put in at first, richard? i forget. fifty pounds, was it? and then there's the compound interest, which has been going on for thirty years. how much would it amount to now?"

"more than two thousand pounds," answered richard north, making a mental calculation.

dr. rane's face flushed with a quick hot flush: a light shone in his eye: his lips parted, as with some deep emotions. "more than two thousand pounds!" he echoed under his breath. "two thousand pounds! bessy, it would be like a gold-mine."

she laughed slightly. "but we can't get it, you see, oliver. and i am sure neither of us wishes the other dead."

"no--no; certainly not," said dr. rane.

richard north said good-day and left. just before turning in at the gates of dallory hall, he met a gig containing lawyer dale of whitborough, who was driving somewhere with his clerk; no other than timothy wilks. mr. dale pulled up, to speak.

"can it be true that george massey is dead?" questioned richard as they were parting.

"it's true enough, poor fellow. he died yesterday: was ill but two days."

"i've just heard it at dr. rane's. he received a letter this morning to tell him of it."

"dr. rane did? i was not aware they knew each other."

"nor did they. but they were both in that tontine. now that george massey's gone, dr. rane and his wife are the only two remaining in it. rather singular that it should be so."

for a minute mr. dale could not recollect whether he had ever heard of this particular tontine; although, being a lawyer, he made it his business to know everything; and he and richard talked of it together. excessively singular, lawyer dale agreed, that a tontine should be practically useless to a man and his wife--unless one of them died.

"very mortifying, i must say, mr. richard north; especially where the money would be welcome. two thousand pounds! dr. rane must wish the senseless thing at hanover. i should, i know, if it were my case. good-morning."

and quiet timothy wilks, across whom they talked, heard all that was said, and unconsciously treasured it up in his memory.

richard carried home the news to his father. mr. north was seated at the table in his parlour, some papers before him. he lifted his hands in dismay.

"dead! george massey dead! dick, as sure as we are here, there must be something wrong about that tontine! or they'd never drop off like this, one after another."

"it's not much more than a week ago, sir, that i met george massey in whitborough, and was talking to him. to all appearance he was as healthy and likely to live as i am."

"what took him off?"

"dale says it was nothing more than a neglected cold."

"i don't like it; dick, i don't like it," reiterated mr. north, "bessy may be the next to go; or rane."

"i hope not, father."

"well--i've had it in my head for ever so long that that tontine is an unlucky one; i think it is going to be so to the end. we shall see. look here, dick."

he pointed to some of the papers before him; used cheques apparently; pushing them towards his son.

"they sent me word at the bank that my account was overdrawn. i knew it could not be, and asked for my cheques. dick, here are four or five that i never drew."

richard took them in his fingers. the filling up was in madam's handwriting: the signature apparently in mr. north's.

"do you give mrs. north blank cheques ready signed, sir?"

"no, never, dick. i was cured of that, years ago. when she wants money, i sometimes let her fill in the cheque, but i never sign it beforehand."

"and you think you have not signed these?"

"think! i know i have not. she has imitated my signature, and got the money."

richard's face grew dark with shame; shame for his stepmother. but that mr. north was her husband, it would have been downright forgery. probably the law, if called upon, might have accounted it so now. he took time for consideration.

"father, i think--pardon me for the suggestion--i think you had better let your private account be passed over to me. allow it to lie in my name; and make my signature alone available--just as it is with our business account. i see no other safe way."

"with all my heart; and be glad to do it," acquiesced mr. north, "but there's no account to pass. there's no account to pass, dick; it's overdrawn."