My brother paid me a visit the following morning; and having in vain requested me to take an airing, grew angry. “Wherefore is it, Harriet,” said he with a petulant air, “that you affect to play the Ephesian Matron with me? It is impossible you can regret the death of a doating, childish old man, worn out by sufferings, at seventy and upwards? To what purpose this seclusion, this dejection, these perpetual tears? One would imagine you had already been entombed long enough! But there is no remedy for a romantic mind,” continued he with more tenderness. “Any other woman but yourself would have resented his want of generosity. You are poorly recompensed, my dear girl, for your watching, and for the loss of your beauty.” “I have enough for my wants,” answered I, “and much more than I deserved.” “I was not of that opinion,” replied he, “and soon after your marriage gave Mr. Flint to understand that I thought his widow was but slenderly provided for, unless further considered. He told me that he had thought as I did, and had acted accordingly. He added that you were the only comfort he had in this world; that he had to thank me for the blessing, and that I should find he had not forgotten my kindness. I have reason,” continued Philip, “to think that he kept his word, and destroyed the bond he held against me; for it has not appeared.” I concealed my face in the sopha-cushion, otherwise he must have perceived my astonishment. “This consideration on his part,” continued he, “has been however repaid on mine, for I have been useful to him in my professional way, and never charged him sixpence.” I sighed profoundly—“Come,” cried he, assuming a more cheerful air, “let us now look forward to more pleasing prospects. You may yet be _mistress here_.”