"It may be then too late," said the doctor, with solemnity; and locking up his cabinet, he led the way back to his common sitting-room, in high dudgeon. CHAPTER VII. The morning after the events just recorded, as Mr. Montagu, the brother of Sir Ambrose, was sitting at the breakfast-table with his wife and daughter, they were all startled by the unexpected arrival of a letter from Sir Ambrose. "Bless me!" cried Mr. Montagu, moved for once to forget his usual habits of indifference--"I do believe it is a letter from my brother." "Your brother!" screamed Mrs. Montagu, starting up to examine it, and in her agitation overturning a patent steam coffee-machine, by which coffee was roasted, ground, made, and poured out with an _ad libitum_ of boiling milk and sugar, all in the short space of five minutes. "Oh!" continued she--"I am scalded to death!" "I hope not, my dear," said Mr. Montagu, calmly taking up his letter, and carefully examining it on all sides without opening it. "Yes," continued he, "it is indeed from my brother, and I hope it contains no ill news, for I do not perceive any signs of mourning about it." And so saying, he very tranquilly laid his letter again upon the table, and recommenced sipping his coffee. "La! papa, hadn't you better open your letter and read it?" asked Clara, who was busily employed in assisting her mother. "Ah!" resumed Mr. Montagu. "True! I never thought of that--I think I had." Then again taking the letter in his hand, he broke the seal and gave it to Clara to read. "And do you think my daughter is to leave me when I am in this miserable condition, Mr. Montagu, to read letters from your brother, Mr. Montagu--a man who has always treated me with such disrespect, Mr. Montagu,--and I half scalded to death!" "I am sure I'm very sorry, my dear," began Mr. Montagu. "Oh, spare your sorrow," exclaimed his wife--"for I'm sure you don't care one single straw about me. You're a cruel man--" "Hadn't I better read the letter?" asked Clara, trembling at the thought of the domestic sparring she saw about to ensue. "Yes, yes! read, my dear," said her father, glad of any pretext to avert the coming storm: for though he seldom disturbed himself about any thing, provided his study was not swept oftener than once a month, and he was not obliged to submit to the insupportable fatigue of arranging his ideas in the tense form, necessary for conversation; he had yet a most inconceivable horror of his wife's fluency of tongue, thus affording a striking proof of the ingratitude of mortals, who often ungraciously find fault with the very things for which they have most occasion to be thankful; as it must be allowed that nothing could really be more convenient for a man of a taciturn disposition, than to have a wife who could manage to talk at once for him and herself too.