en to his domestic annoyances, except
to his most familiar associates; to them, indeed, Sir Miles had said,
briefly, that he considered a physician who abused his entrance into
a noble family by stealing into its alliance was a character in whose
punishment all society had an interest. The words were repeated; they
were thought just. Those who ventured to suggest that Mrs. Clavering, as
a widow, was a free agent, were regarded with suspicion. It was the
time when French principles were just beginning to be held in horror,
especially in the provinces, and when everything that encroached
upon the rights and prejudices of the high born was called "a French
principle." Dr. Mivers was as much scouted as if he had been a
sans-culotte. Obliged to quit the county, he settled at a distance;
but he had a career to commence again; his wife's death enfeebled his
spirits and damped his exertions. He did little more than earn a bare
subsistence, and died at last, when his only daughter was fourteen,
poor and embarrassed On his death-bed he wrote a letter to Sir Miles
reminding him that, after all, Susan was his sister's child, gently
vindicating himself from the unmerited charge of treachery, which had
blasted his fortunes and left his orphan penniless, and closing with a
touching yet a manly appeal to the sole relative left to befriend her.
The clergyman who had attended him in his dying moments took charge of
this letter; he brought it in person to Laughton, and delivered it to
Sir Miles. Whatever his errors, the old baronet was no common man. He
was not vindictive, though he could not be called forgiving. He had
considered his conduct to his sister a duty owed to his name and
ancestors; she had placed herself and her youngest child out of the pale
of his family. He would not receive as his niece the grand-daughter of
a silk-mercer. The relationship was extinct, as, in certain countries,
nobility is forfeited by a union with an inferior class. But, niece or
not, here was a claim to humanity and benevolence, and never yet had
appeal been made by suffering to his heart and purse in vain.

He bowed his head over the letter as his eye came to the last line, and
remained silent so long that the clergyman at last, moved and hopeful,
approached and took his hand. It was the impulse of a good man and a
good priest. Sir Miles looked up in surprise; but the calm, pitying face
bent on him repelled all return of pride.

"Sir," he said tremulo