Matthew Whitelock, reclining in what he called his “easy chair,” was musing, rather than thinking, over the inconsistencies of the most consistent, and pondering as to which was the more beautiful to contemplate--the love a mother bears her child, or the devotion a child renders to a parent; thinking how many instances there are of the former, and how, comparatively, few of the latter; hoping that the widow would really buy the wine and meat, as he desired; and having, like all genuine Englishmen, great faith in “creature comforts,” he converted the worn, attenuated widow into a portly woman. Having arranged this, he indulged in a vision he had of late enjoyed so frequently, that it had become almost a reality--that Richard would turn out something like Whittington: his dreams of the future had gradually taken Richard in, first as a shadow, then as a substance, until he formed a portion of all his day dreams--wondering if he could tie up fishing-flies, yet fearing to ask him, lest Martha might make it another subject of complaint; varying these fancies with probabilities as to whether he should have good fishing the first of the following June, when he made his annual journey to Teddington, and, be the day hot or cold, invariably returned with a swollen face, wonderfully helping Martha’s sarcasms during the following summer and autumn months; indeed, she constituted it a red letter day--every thing occurred “before” or after “master went bothering after the bits of fish, that the cat wouldn’t eat without butter, and got the bad face.” Then again his thoughts would dwell upon Richard, whom he believed--and with fair show of reason--endowed with a rare capacity for acquiring knowledge, and tuning it to the best account. He never thought of another power he had--that of attaching to him those who seldom formed attachments. Some observation made by the lad, in a careless, off-hand manner, would frequently set his master calculating what he could do for him. He delighted in lending him books, and to draw forth his opinions upon them; devising many clever expedients to overcome Richard’s shyness, and make him “speak out.” As the lad’s accumulated and accumulating knowledge became better known to him, he felt almost inclined to apologise when it was necessary he should take out parcels; but what especially charmed him was the boy’s unconsciousness of his own book improvement and superiority. Had it not been for the unaccountable fear Matthew Whitelock entertained of his housekeeper--which he only overcame by fits and starts--he would have forbidden Richard the kitchen, and seated him at his own little table in the dusty back room; but he knew that such a movement must lead to open rebellion. He had grown positively uncomfortable at the idea of Richard’s brushing his shoes, and cleaning knives--“a lad capable of writing the Latin names of his books without a dictionary, and was a better penman than he was himself!” However difficult it may be of