sum as though he couldn't possibly stir without it."

"If I might venture to speak my mind," said Thorne.

"Well?" said the squire, looking at him earnestly.

"I should be inclined to say that Mr Moffat wants to cry off,
himself."

"Oh, impossible; quite impossible. In the first place, he was so very
anxious for the match. In the next place, it is such a great thing
for him. And then, he would never dare; you see, he is dependent on
the de Courcys for his seat."

"But suppose he loses his seat?"

"But there is not much fear of that, I think. Scatcherd may be a very
fine fellow, but I think they'll hardly return him at Barchester."

"I don't understand much about it," said Thorne; "but such things do
happen."

"And you believe that this man absolutely wants to get off the match;
absolutely thinks of playing such a trick as that on my daughter;--on
me?"

"I don't say he intends to do it; but it looks to me as though he
were making a door for himself, or trying to make a door: if so, your
having the money will stop him there."

"But, Thorne, don't you think he loves the girl? If I thought not--"

The doctor stood silent for a moment, and then he said, "I am not a
love-making man myself, but I think that if I were much in love with
a young lady I should not write such a letter as that to her father."

"By heavens! If I thought so," said the squire--"but, Thorne, we
can't judge of those fellows as one does of gentlemen; they are so
used to making money, and seeing money made, that they have an eye to
business in everything."

"Perhaps so, perhaps so," muttered the doctor, showing evidently that
he still doubted the warmth of Mr Moffat's affection.

"The match was none of my making, and I cannot interfere now to break
it off: it will give her a good position in the world; for, after
all, money goes a great way, and it is something to be in Parliament.
I can only hope she likes him. I do truly hope she likes him;" and
the squire also showed by the tone of his voice that, though he might
hope that his daughter was in love with her intended husband, he
hardly conceived it to be possible that she should be so.

And what was the truth of the matter? Miss Gresham was no more in
love with Mr Moffat than you are--oh, sweet, young, blooming beauty!
Not a whit more; not, at least, in your sense of the word, nor in
mine. She had by no means resolved within her heart that of all the
men whom she had ever seen, or ever