Charlton called himself a lawyer, his specialty being conveyancing and real estate transactions. His one purpose in life was to be a rich man. To this end all others must be subordinate. When a boy he had been taught to play on the flute; and his musical taste, if cultivated, might have been a saving element of grace. But finding that in a single year he had spent ten dollars in concert tickets, he indignantly repudiated music, and shut his ears even to the hand-organs in the street. He had inherited a fondness for fine horses. Before he was twenty-five he would not have driven out after Ethan Allen himself, if there had been any toll-gate keepers to pay. His taste in articles of food was nice and discriminating; but he now bought fish and beef of the cheapest, and patronized a milkman whose cows were fed on the refuse of the distilleries. Charlton was not venturous in speculation. The boldest operation he ever attempted was that of his marriage. Before taking that step he had satisfied himself in regard to the state of the late Mr. Berwick’s affairs. They could be disentangled, and made to leave a balance of half a million for the heirs, if a certain lawsuit, involving a large amount of real estate, should be decided the right way. Charlton burrowed and inquired and examined till he came to the conclusion that the suit would go in favor of the estate. On that hint he took time by the forelock, and married the widow. To his consternation matters did not turn out as he had hoped. As Charlton entered his wife’s room, on the morning she had been writing the letter already presented, “What is all this, madam?” he exclaimed, advancing and twitching away the manuscript that lay before her. The lady thus startled rose and looked at him without speaking, as if struggling to comprehend what he had done. At length a gleam of intelligence flashed from her eyes, and she mildly said, “I will thank you to give me back those papers: they are mine.” “_Mine_, Mrs. Charlton! Where did you learn that word?” said the husband, really surprised at the language of his usually meek and acquiescent helpmate. “Do you not mean to give them back?” “Assuredly no. To whom is the letter addressed? Ah! I see. To Mr. Henry Berwick. Highly proper that I should read what my wife writes to a young man.” “Then you do not mean to give the letter back, Charlton?” Another surprise for the husband! At first she used to speak to him as “Ralph,” or “dear”; then as “Mr. Charlton”; then as “Sir”; and now it was plain “Charlton.” What did it portend? The lady held out her hand, as if to receive the papers. “Pooh!” said the husband, striking it away. “Go and attend to your housework. What a shrill noise your canary is making! That bird must be sold. There was a charge of seventy-five cents for canary-seed in my last grocer’s bill! It’s atrocious. The creature is eating us out of house and home. Bird and cage would bring, at least, five dollars.”