‘Pish!’ said Toole, who saw the secret almost in his grasp; ’don’t tell me, my dear Madam—­don’t you think I know my business by this time o’ day?  I tell you again you’d better ease your mind—­or take my word for it you’ll be sorry too late.  How would you like to go off like poor old Peggy Slowe—­eh?  There’s more paralysis, apoplexy, heart-diseases, and lunacy, caused in one year by that sort of silly secrecy and moping, than by—­hang it!  My dear Madam,’ urged Toole, breaking into a bold exhortation on seeing signs of confusion and yielding in his fat patient—­’you’d tell me all that concerns your health, and know that Tom Toole would put his hand in the fire before he’d let a living soul hear a symptom of your case; and here’s some paltry little folly or trouble that I would not—­as I’m a gentleman—­give a half-penny to hear, and you’re afraid to tell me—­though until you do, neither I, nor all the doctors in Europe, can do you a ha’porth o’ good.’

‘Sure I’ve nothing to tell, doctor dear,’ whimpered poor Mrs. Mack, dissolving into her handkerchief.

’Look ye—­there’s no use in trying to deceive a doctor that knows what he’s about.’  Toole was by this time half mad with curiosity.  ’Don’t tell me what’s on your mind, though I’d be sorry you thought I wasn’t ready and anxious, to help you with my best and most secret services; but I confess, my dear Ma’am, I’d rather not hear—­reserve it for some friend who has your confidence—­but ’tis plain from the condition you’re in’—­and Toole closed his lips hard, and nodded twice or thrice—­’you have not told either the major or your daughter; and tell it you must to some one, or take the consequences.’

’Oh!  Dr. Toole, I am in trouble—­and I’d like to tell you; but won’t you—­won’t you promise me now, on your solemn honour, if I do, you won’t tell a human being?’ blubbered the poor matron.

’Conscience, honour, veracity, Ma’am—­but why should I say any more—­don’t you know me, my dear Mrs. Mack?’ said Toole in a hot fidget, and with all the persuasion of which he was master.

’Indeed, I do—­and I’m in great trouble—­and sometimes think no one can take me out of it,’ pursued she.

‘Come, come, my dear Madam, is it money?’ demanded Toole.

’Oh! no—­it’s—­’tis a dreadful—­that is, there is money in it—­but oh! dear Doctor Toole, there’s a frightful woman, and I don’t know what to do:  and I sometimes thought you might be able to help me—­you’re so clever—­and I was going to tell you, but I was ashamed—­there now, it’s out,’ and she blubbered aloud.

‘What’s out?’ said Toole, irritated.  ’I can’t stop here all day, you know; and if you’d rather I’d go, say so.’

’Oh no, but the major, nor Maggy does not know a word about it; and so, for your life, don’t tell them; and—­and—­here it is.’

And from her pocket she produced a number of the Freeman’s Journal, five or six weeks old and a great deal soiled.