ures as to the future, burdened by heavy regrets, and
with hopes too weak to afford him any solace. The last words which
Patience had spoken rang in his ears,--"Think of those two, with
nobody, as it were, to say a word for them." He did think of them,
and of the speaker also, and knew that he had neglected his duty. He
could understand that such a girl as his own Clarissa did require
some one "to say a word for her," some stalwart arm to hold her up,
some loving strength to support her, some counsel to direct her. Of
course those three girls were as other girls, looking forward to
matrimony as their future lot in life, and it would not be well that
they should be left to choose or to be chosen, or left to reject and
be rejected, without any aid from their remaining parent. He knew
that he had been wrong, and he almost resolved that the chambers in
Southampton Buildings should be altogether abandoned, and his books
removed to Popham Villa.

But such men do not quite resolve. Before he could lay his hand upon
the table and assure himself that the thing should be done, the
volume had been taken up again, used for a few minutes, and then the
man's mind had run away again to that vague contemplation which is
so much easier than the forming of a steady purpose. It was one of
those almost sultry days which do come to us occasionally amidst
the ordinary inclemency of a London May, and he was sitting with
his window open, though there was a fire in the grate. As he sat,
dreaming rather than thinking, there came upon his ear the weak,
wailing, puny sound of a distant melancholy flute. He had heard it
often before, and had been roused by it to evil wishes, and sometimes
even to evil words, against the musician. It was the effort of some
youth in the direction of Staple's Inn to soothe with music the
savageness of his own bosom. It was borne usually on the evening air,
but on this occasion the idle swain had taken up his instrument
within an hour or two of his early dinner. His melody was burdened
with no peculiar tune, but consisted of a few low, wailing,
melancholy notes, such as may be extracted from the reed by a breath
and the slow raising and falling of the little finger, much, we
believe, to the comfort of the player, but to the ineffable disgust
of, too often, a large circle of hearers.

Sir Thomas was affected by the sound long before he was aware that he
was listening to it. To-whew, to-whew; to-whew, to-whew; whew-to-