The doctor of a Barsetshire village has a niece with no name and no money, and the young squire whose estate is mortgaged to a railway navvy's fortune wants to marry her. Trollope wrote before breakfast, by his watch, 250 words a quarter-hour, and thought this the best plot he ever had — chiefly because his brother gave it to him. It is the warmest of the Barsetshire novels and the most exact about what money does.