o his own sense of
that which might be either very desirable or very useful.

"Ten thousand pounds!"

My mother could not speak, though she succeeded in making an imploring
sign of assent.

"Ten thousand pounds is a great deal of money, my dear Betsey--a very
great deal!"

The color of my mother changed to the hue of death, and by her breathing
she appeared to be in the agony.

"Well, well, Betsey," said my father a little hastily, for he was
frightened at her pallid countenance and extreme distress, "have
it thine own way--the money, yes, yes--it shall be given as thou
wishest--now set thy kind heart at rest."

The revulsion of feeling was too great for one whose system had been
wound up to a state of excitement like that which had sustained my
mother, who, an hour before, had seemed scarcely able to speak. She
extended her hand toward her husband, smiled benignantly in his face,
whispered the word "Thanks," and then, losing all her powers of body,
sank into the last sleep, as tranquilly as the infant drops its head
on the bosom of the nurse. This was, after all, a sudden, and, in one
sense, an unexpected death: all who witnessed it were struck with awe.
My father gazed for a whole minute intently on the placid features
of his wife, and left the room in silence. He was followed by Dr.
Etherington, who accompanied him to the private apartment where they
had first met that night, neither uttering a syllable until both were
seated.

"She was a good woman, Dr. Etherington!" said the widowed man, shaking
his foot with agitation.

"She was a good woman, Mr. Goldencalf."

"And a good wife, Dr. Etherington."

"I have always believed her to be a good wife, sir."

"Faithful, obedient, and frugal."

"Three qualities that are of much practical use in the affairs of this
world."

"I shall never marry again, sir."

The divine bowed.

"Nay, I never could find such another match!"

Again the divine inclined his head, though the assent was accompanied by
slight smile.

"Well, she has left me an heir."

"And brought something that he might inherit," observed the Doctor,
dryly.

My ancestor looked up inquiringly at his companion, but apparently most
of the sarcasm was thrown away,

"I resign the child to your care, Dr. Etherington, conformably to the
dying request of my beloved Betsey."

"I accept the charge, Mr. Goldencalf, comformably to my promise to the
deceased; but you will remember that there was a c