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Bea. No, you have not, for he is stupid still. His brother, the poor curate of Crofton,, is a clever man.

''Sea. (contemptuously.)'' The poor curate of Crofton! One of those clever men, I suppose, who sit with their shoes down o' the heel, by their own study fire, brooding o'er their own hoard of ideas, without ever being able from their parts or their learning to produce one atom's worth of good to themselves or their families. I have known many such: but let me see a man, who from narrow and unfavorable beginnings shapes out his own way in this changing world to wealth and distinction, and, by my faith! he will be wise enough for me.

Bea. My friend, you become animated: I am happy to see you so much interested in the fortune of others; it is a blessed disposition. I have something also to tell you of your old friend Malton, which I am sure will give you pleasure.

Sea. What, he has got a fortune too, I suppose, and is standing for the county.

Bea. No; something better than that, my friend.

Sea. Ha! Well, some people get on amazingly!

Bea. It is amazing, indeed, for it was altogether hopeless. You remember his only son, the poor little boy that was so lame and so sickly?

Sea. Yes, I do.

Bea. Well, from some application, which I cannot remember at present, the sinews of his leg have recovered their proper tone again, and he is growing up as healthy a comely looking lad as you can see.