There's not a bit of swampy ground or a patch of sour grass on the farm," he thought bitterly.
He lay for some hours deliberating as to what he should do.

Death was near, but not so very close to him just yet.

He had time to think.

No, come what might, he would not leave the bulk of his property to fall into the keeping of Frank Randall.
He remembered that there were charitable institutions, to which a man, not wishing to enrich an ungrateful race, might bequeath his money, and obtain some credit for himself thereby, which no man could expect from his own relations.

There was an infirmary at Malsham, rather a juvenile institution as yet, in aid whereof Mr.Whitelaw had often been plagued for subscriptions, reluctantly doling out half-a-guinea now and then, more often refusing to contribute anything.