My brother had now been absent for the space of three years. At first his letters had been frequent, and from them it appeared that he was following his profession in London with industry; they then became rather rare, and my father did not always communicate their contents. His last letter, however, had filled him and our whole little family with joy; it was dated from Paris, and the writer was evidently in high spirits. After describing in eloquent terms the beauties and gaieties of the French capital, he informed us how he had plenty of money, having copied a celebrated picture of one of the Italian masters for a Hungarian nobleman, for which he had received a large sum. "He wishes me to go with him to Italy," added he, "but I am fond of independence; and, if ever I visit old Rome, I will have no patrons near me to distract my attention." But six months had now elapsed from the date of this letter, and we had heard no further intelligence of my brother. My father's complaint increased; the gout, his principal enemy, occasionally mounted high up in his system, and we had considerable difficulty in keeping it from the stomach, where it generally proves fatal. I now devoted almost the whole of my time to my father, on whom his faithful partner also lavished every attention and care. I read the Bible to him, which was his chief delight; and also occasionally such other books as I thought might prove entertaining to him. His spirits were generally rather depressed. The absence of my brother seemed to prey upon his mind. "I wish he were here," he would frequently exclaim, "I can't imagine what has become of him; I trust, however, he will arrive in time." He still sometimes rallied, and I took advantage of those moments of comparative ease to question him upon the events of his early life. My attentions to him had not passed unnoticed, and he was kind, fatherly, and unreserved. I had never known my father so entertaining as at these moments, when his life was but too evidently drawing to a close. I had no idea that he knew and had seen so much; my respect for him increased, and I looked upon him almost with admiration. His anecdotes were in general highly curious; some of them related to people in the highest stations, and to men whose names were closely connected with some of the brightest glories of our native land. He had frequently conversed--almost on terms of familiarity--with good old George. He had known the conqueror of Tippoo Saib; and was the friend of Townshend, who, when Wolfe fell, led the British grenadiers against the shrinking regiments of Montcalm. "Pity," he added, "that when old--old as I am now--he should have driven his own son mad by robbing him of his plighted bride; but so it was; he married his son's bride. I saw him lead her to the altar; if ever there was an angelic countenance, it was that girl's; she was almost too fair to be one of the daughters of women. Is there anything, boy, that you would