During the last forty yards of my father’s walk, we each drew innumerable and often opposite conclusions, from his slightest gestures and motions, interpreting them all as favourable or unfavourable omens. In the course of five minutes my mother’s _presentiments_ varied fifty times. At length came his knock at the door. My mother grew pale--to her ear it said “all’s lost;” to mine it sounded like “all’s safe.” “He stays to take off his great coat! a good sign; but he comes heavily up stairs.” Our eyes were fixed on the door--he opened it, and advanced towards us without uttering one syllable. “All’s lost--and all’s safe,” said my father. “My fortune’s safe, Mrs. Harrington.” “What becomes of your presentiments, my dear mother?” said I. “Thank Heaven!” said my mother, “I was wrong for once.” “You might thank Heaven for more than once, madam,” said my father. “But then what did you mean by all’s lost, Mr. Harrington; if all’s safe, how can all be lost?” “My all, Mrs. Harrington, is not all fortune. There is such a thing as credit as well as fortune, Mrs. Harrington.” “But if you have not lost your fortune, you have not lost your credit, I presume,” said my mother. “I have a character as a gentleman, Mrs. Harrington.” “Of course.” “A character for consistency, Mrs. Harrington, to preserve.” “‘Tis a hard thing to preserve, no doubt,” said my mother. “But I wish you’d speak plain, for my nerves can’t bear it.” “Then I can tell you, Mrs. Harrington, your nerves have a great deal to bear yet. What will your nerves feel, madam--what will your enthusiasm say, sir--when I tell you, that I have lost my heart to--a Jewess?” “Berenice!” cried I. “Impossible!” cried my mother. “How came you to see her?” “That’s not for you to know yet; but first, young gentleman, you who are hanging on tenter-hooks, you must hang there a little longer.” “As long as you please, my dear father,” said I. “_Your dear father_!--ay, I’m very dear to you now, because you are in hopes, sir, I shall turn fool, and break my vow into the bargain; but I am not come to _that_ yet, my good sir--I have some consistency.” “Oh! never mind your consistency, for mercy’s sake, Mr. Harrington,” said my mother, “only tell us your story, for I really am dying to hear it, and I am so weak.” “Ring the bell for dinner,” said my father, “for Mrs. Harrington’s so weak, I’ll keep my story till after dinner.” My mother protested she was quite strong, and we both held my father fast, insisting--he being in such excellent humour and spirits that we might insist--insisting upon his telling his story before he should have any dinner. “Where was I?” said he. “You know best,” said my mother; “you said you had lost your heart to a Jewess, and Harrington exclaimed _Berenice!_ and that’s all I’ve heard yet.” “Very well, then, let us leave Berenice for the present”--I groaned--“and go to her father, Mr. Montenero, and to a certain Mrs. Coates.”