The medical men had long resisted both wishes, until, convinced that the question was reduced to one of a few hours more or less of life, and that denial was likely to produce worse effects than compliance, they finally and unanimously consented.
"It's no a great concession to mortal infirmity to let a dying man have his way," whispered Magrath to the two admirals, as the latter entered the room.

"Sir Wycherly is a hopeless case, and we'll just consent to let him make a few codicils, seeing that he so fairvently desires it; and then there may be fewer hopeless deevils left behind him, when he's gathered to his forefathers." "Here we are, my dear Sir Wycherly," said the vice-admiral, who never lost an occasion to effect his purpose, by any unnecessary delay; "here we all are anxious to comply with your wishes.

Your kinsman, Sir Reginald Wychecombe, is also present, and desirous of doing your pleasure." It was a painful sight to see a man on his death-bed, so anxious to discharge the forms of the world, as the master of the Hall now appeared to be.

There had been an unnecessary alienation between the heads of the two branches of the family; not arising from any quarrel, or positive cause of disagreement, but from a silent conviction in both parties, that each was unsuited to the other.

They had met a few times, and always parted without regret.