I had too much feeling for my mother’s present distress to increase her agitation by saying any thing on this tender subject. I let her accuse me as she pleased--and she very soon began to defend me. The accounts she had heard in various letters of the notice that had been taken of Miss Montenero by some of the leading persons in the fashionable world, the proposals that had been made to her, and especially the addresses of Lord Mowbray, which had been of sufficient publicity, had made, I found, a considerable alteration in my mother’s judgment or feelings. She observed that it was a pity my father was so violently prejudiced and obstinate, for that, after all, it would not be an unprecedented marriage. My mother, after a pause, went on to say, that though she was not, she hoped, an interested person, and should scorn the idea of her son’s being a fortune-hunter--and indeed I had given pretty sufficient proof that I was not of that description of suitors; yet, if the Jewess were really amiable, and as capable of generous attachment, it would be, my mother at last acknowledged, the best thing I could do, to secure an independent establishment with the wife of my choice. I was just going to tell my mother of the conversation that I had had with Mr. Montenero, and of _the obstacle_, when her mind reverted to the Lombard-street letter, and to Baldwin’s bank; and for a full hour we discussed the probability of Baldwin’s standing or failing, though neither of us had any means of judging--of this, being perhaps the least anxious of the two, I became sensible the first. I finished, by stationing myself at the window to watch for my father’s return, of which I promised to give my mother notice, if she would lie down quietly on the sofa, and try to compose her spirits; she had given orders to be denied to all visitors, but every knock at the door made her start, and “There’s your father! There’s Mr. Harrington!” was fifty times repeated before the hour when it was even possible that my father could have returned from the city. When the probable time came and passed, when it grew later and later without my father’s appearing, our anxiety and impatience rose to the highest pitch. At last I gave my mother notice that I saw among the walkers at the end of the street which joined our square, an elderly gentleman with a cane. “But there are so many elderly gentlemen with canes,” said my mother, joining me at the window. “Is it Mr. Harrington?” “It is very like my father, ma’am. Now you can see him plainly picking his way over the crossing.” “He is looking down,” said my mother; “that is a very bad sign.--But is he not looking up now?” “No, ma’am; and now he is taking snuff.” “Taking snuff! is he? Then there is some hope,” said my mother.