late, of reading a chapter to my father before retiring,” she continued; “and you can remain, if you please, and join us in our devotions—surely, such worship can harm no one.” And sitting down at her father’s knees, she laid the holy volume in his lap, opened it, and read; while he bent over her until his silver locks mingled with the jetty tresses of her hair, and listened to her teaching—it was time, old, worn-out time, called to eternity by a sweet messenger from God. “There, that will do, my child; put up the book,” said Mr. Cornelius, as his daughter’s voice, losing its firmness, grew uncertain, and tears fell pattering upon the story she repeated: “certainly, certainly, it is not for me, in my old age, to learn of one so young.” It was a simple tale, a touching parable, told by Christ; so appropriate as to require from me no further designation. “Why, what spirit has come over you of late—always weeping!” said the old man, kissing the moisture from her eyelids. “What do you want? All that I have is yours. Now go—and see that you show a merry face in the morning.” The daughter rose, and bid us good-night. “Do you not think Anne has lost a little of her color—grown slightly pale, Mr. Didimus?” I made known the fears which I had long entertained, and to which each day added a confirmation. “My daughter’s sick! sick at heart! Nonsense! What has she to be sick about? Are not my coffers open to her hand? What power of this earth is greater than her gold? Sick!—And yet, now I do remember, that for the past month, or more, no music has come into me, as it was wont, from her crowded rooms; no sounds of merriment, of joy, of the frivolity of fools, grating upon the ear of night; no cringing, no bowing low with doffed hat, and giving of God’s health, as I pass in and out at my own door. Look to it: you are my daughter’s best friend; question her; inquire out the secret sorrow which preys upon her mind—surely, money is a medicine for all the ills of life. She requires a change of place; these stuffed marts about us breed foul air; let her travel. Or, perhaps, she has again listened to the idle whispers of love, and conceals from me her weakness. Tell her, that although I would have her live with me during the short remainder of my life, yet she shall marry where she may choose; to give me a long line of heirs, rich, rich, through two centuries. Sick! why I was never sick!” And the miser bent over the little table, and returned to his calculations. SECTION XIII.