“I never shall forgive myself!” said the wife of the Major, drying her cheeks. Perhaps it was not herself whom she felt she never could forgive. Ah! the man their father was! Incomparable Melchisedec! he might well be called. So generous! so lordly! When the rain of tears would subside for a moment, one would relate an anecdote or childish reminiscence of him, and provoke a more violent outburst. “Never, among the nobles of any land, never have I seen one like him!” exclaimed the Countess, and immediately requested Harriet to tell her how it would be possible to stop Andrew’s tongue in Silva’s presence. “At present, you know, my dear, they may talk as much as they like—they can’t understand one another one bit.” Mrs. Cogglesby comforted her by the assurance that Andrew had received an intimation of her wish for silence everywhere and toward everybody; and that he might be reckoned upon to respect it, without demanding a reason for the restriction. In other days Caroline and Louisa had a little looked down on Harriet’s alliance with a dumpy man—a brewer—and had always kind Christian compassion for him if his name were mentioned. They seemed now, by their silence, to have a happier estimate of Andrew’s qualities. While the three sisters sat mingling their sorrows and alarms, their young brother was making his way to the house. As he knocked at the door he heard his name pronounced behind him, and had no difficulty in recognizing the worthy brewer. “What, Van, my boy! how are you? Quite a foreigner! By George, what a hat!” Mr. Andrew bounced back two or three steps to regard the dusky sombrero. “How do you do, sir?” said Evan. “Sir to you!” Mr. Andrew briskly replied. “Don’t they teach you to give your fist in Portugal, eh? I’ll ‘sir’ you. Wait till I’m Sir Andrew, and then ‘sir’ away. You do speak English still, Van, eh? Quite jolly, my boy?” Mr. Andrew rubbed his hands to express that state in himself. Suddenly he stopped, blinked queerly at Evan, grew pensive, and said, “Bless my soul! I forgot.” The door opened, Mr. Andrew took Evan’s arm, murmured a “hush!” and trod gently along the passage to his library. “We’re safe here,” he said. “There—there’s something the matter up-stairs. The women are upset about something. Harriet—” Mr. Andrew hesitated, and branched off: “You’ve heard we’ve got a new baby?” Evan congratulated him; but another inquiry was in Mr. Andrew’s aspect, and Evan’s calm, sad manner answered it. “Yes,”—Mr. Andrew shook his head dolefully—“a splendid little chap! a rare little chap! a we can’t help these things, Van! They will happen. Sit down, my boy.” Mr. Andrew again interrogated Evan with his eyes. “My father is dead,” said Evan. “Yes!” Mr. Andrew nodded, and glanced quickly at the ceiling, as if to make sure that none listened overhead. “My parliamentary duties will soon be over for the season,” he added, aloud; pursuing, in an under-breath: “Going down to-night, Van?”