Philip De Lancaster still maintained his natural tranquillity, though from some cause, or it might be from none, he had abated of the frequency of his visits to the abbey. He gave himself however no trouble in a business perfectly indifferent to him: the utmost stretch of his exertions went no further than to the making of an artificial fly for angling in a stream, where there were no trout, and Wilson had but little time to spare for chess. Two qualifications Philip had to boast of; the one was that of being an excellent and unwearied hearer, so long as any other person would take the trouble of talking; the other, that of an everlasting sleeper, provided nobody would put him to the trouble of waking. Between these two happy properties he could dispose both of day and of night passably well. His lady in the meanwhile contrived to fill up her hours with sighs and groans, which were echoed back to her in groans and sighs by sympathizing Betty. Cecilia visited her at leisure times; her son occasionally, when called for, and her husband by her desire very rarely, and of his own accord never. Llewellyn was in regular attendance and full confidence; he pronounced her case to be atrabilious and hypochondriac in an extreme degree, and as there could be no doubt of his being right in deciding on the nature of her complaint, it seemed rather unlucky that he was so unsucessful in removing it. As far however as the frequency of attendances and repetition of medicines went, Mr. Llewellyn was clear in conscience. One evening, whilst the Colonel and Squire Philip were engaged at chess, and De Lancaster was tracing out for the edification of Edward Wilson the route of Solomon’s ships to Ophir for gold, Llewellyn came into the room to announce his bulletin of the patient above stairs. Philip’s game was lost, and he had quitted the field; the colonel put the chess-board by, and all ears were open to the report, of which the sage’s countenance augured nothing favourable. The question was put to him by more than one, the answer was--The lady my patient is by no means as I could wish her.--Then I am afraid, observed the colonel, she is by no means well. I hope that does not absolutely follow, said De Lancaster. She is extremely ill, repeated Llewellyn--She is incurable, cried Philip with an emphasis and in a tone above his usual pitch. I think not, replied the father. She is the most decided hypochondriac I ever met with, resumed the man of medicine. Pooh! repeated De Lancaster, if my daughter-in-law has no other complaint than what is caused by melancholy humours and impeded circulation, she may be cured at once; the remedy is immediate. Why; what should cure her? demanded the colonel. That, which alone can heal the mind and its diseases, said De Lancaster; music.