There’s world’s room for you to pass, And room enough for Nan, O; The deil may tak her on his back Who dies for faithless man, O. There’s still as good fish in the sea As ever yet were taken; I’ll spread my net and catch again, Though I have been forsaken. Ha! ha! ha! &c. A better medicine, I suspect, than an action of damages. But to continue. The sisters read the same books, took the same walks, wrought at the same work as steadfastly and lovingly as they worshipped the same mother, and revered the memory of the same father--a remark this last which helps us on to a point of our story; for the father had been dead for some years, leaving the mother a competent annuity, besides a residue, which would afford at least so much to the daughters as would tocher them to a kind of independence, though not to a husband with much hope of being benefited in a money point of view by marriage. But the time came--as what time does not come, even to those who think in the heyday of their happiness it will never come--when there would be a change, when the charm of this threefold relation should cease. The mother died, and with her the annuity; and the attraction she had exercised over the daughters had just drawn them so far past the point of the shaking of the blossoms of youth and beauty and hope, that their affection for each other stood now no chance of being broken by even one of those moral comets that burn up more incombustible bodies than old spinsters with very small competences.