Her brother succeeded to the trade; a man of probity and honour, but somewhat hard and unamiable. In the only letter she had received from him--the one announcing her father’s death--he told her plainly, and very properly, that he could not countenance the life she led; that he had children growing up--that all intercourse between them was at an end, unless she left Mr. Beaufort; when, if she sincerely repented, he would still prove her affectionate brother. Though Catherine had at the time resented this letter as unfeeling--now, humbled and sorrow-stricken, she recognised the propriety of principle from which it emanated. Her brother was well off for his station--she would explain to him her real situation--he would believe her story. She would write to him, and beg him at least to give aid to her poor children. But this step she did not take till a considerable portion of her pittance was consumed--till nearly three parts of a year since Beaufort’s death had expired--and till sundry warnings, not to be lightly heeded, had made her forebode the probability of an early death for herself. From the age of sixteen, when she had been placed by Mr. Beaufort at the head of his household, she had been cradled, not in extravagance, but in an easy luxury, which had not brought with it habits of economy and thrift. She could grudge anything to herself, but to her children--his children, whose every whim had been anticipated, she had not the heart to be saving. She could have starved in a garret had she been alone; but she could not see them wanting a comfort while she possessed a guinea. Philip, to do him justice, evinced a consideration not to have been expected from his early and arrogant recklessness. But Sidney, who could expect consideration from such a child? What could he know of the change of circumstances--of the value of money? Did he seem dejected, Catherine would steal out and spend a week’s income on the lapful of toys which she brought home. Did he seem a shade more pale--did he complain of the slightest ailment, a doctor must be sent for. Alas! her own ailments, neglected and unheeded, were growing beyond the reach of medicine. Anxious-- fearful--gnawed by regret for the past--the thought of famine in the future--she daily fretted and wore herself away. She had cultivated her mind during her secluded residence with Mr. Beaufort, but she had learned none of the arts by which decayed gentlewomen keep the wolf from the door; no little holiday accomplishments, which, in the day of need turn to useful trade; no water-colour drawings, no paintings on velvet, no fabrications of pretty gewgaws, no embroidery and fine needlework. She was helpless--utterly helpless; if she had resigned herself to the thought of service, she would not have had the physical strength for a place of drudgery, and where could she have found the testimonials necessary for a place of trust? A great change, at this time, was apparent in Philip.