“I have known many absurd things in the way of wills,” said Mr Brown, “but this is the crown of all. Who on earth ever heard of Phœbe Thomson? Who’s Phœbe Thomson? Her daughter? Why, she never had any daughter in the memory of man. I should say it is somewhere like thirty years since she settled down in Carlingford--with no child, nor appearance of ever having had one--an old witch with three cats, and a heart like the nether millstone. Respect? don’t speak to me! why should I respect her? Here she’s gone, after living a life which nobody was the better for; certainly _I_ was none the better for it; why, she did not even employ me to make this precious will; and saddled me--me, of all men in the world--with a burden I wouldn’t undertake for my own brother. I’ll have nothing to do with it. Do you suppose I’m going to give up my own business, and all my comfort, to seek Phœbe Thomson? The idea’s ridiculous! the woman was mad!” “Hush! for we’re in the house of our departed friend, and have just laid her down,” said the inappropriate rector, “in the sure and certain hope----” Mr Brown made, and checked himself in making, an extraordinary grimace. “Do you suppose I’m bound to go hunting Phœbe Thomson till that day comes?” said the attorney. “Better to be a ghost at once, when one could have surer information. I’m very sorry, Mrs Christian; I have no hand in it, I assure you. Who do you imagine this Phœbe Thomson is?” “Sir,” said Mrs Christian, “I decline to give you any information. If my son was here, instead of being in India, as everybody knows, I might have some one to act for me. But you may be certain I shall take advice upon it. You will hear from my solicitor, Mr Brown; I decline to give you any information on the subject.”