en my days upon earth, I may say with Jacob
of old, though I do not mean to say that my case is so hard as his; he
had many undutiful children, whilst I have only--; but I will not
reproach you. I have also like him a son to whom I can look with hope,
who may yet preserve my name when I am gone, so let me be thankful;
perhaps, after all, I have not lived in vain. Boy, when I am gone, look
up to your brother, and may God bless you both. There, don't weep; but
take the Bible, and read me something about the old man and his
children."

My brother had now been absent for the space of three years. At first
his letters had been frequent, and from them it appeared that he was
following his profession in London with industry; they then became rather
rare, and my father did not always communicate their contents. His last
letter, however, had filled him and our whole little family with joy; it
was dated from Paris, and the writer was evidently in high spirits. After
describing in eloquent terms the beauties and gaieties of the French
capital, he informed us how he had plenty of money, having copied a
celebrated picture of one of the Italian masters for a Hungarian
nobleman, for which he had received a large sum. "He wishes me to go
with him to Italy," added he, "but I am fond of independence; and, if
ever I visit old Rome, I will have no patrons near me to distract my
attention." But six months had now elapsed from the date of this letter,
and we had heard no further intelligence of my brother. My father's
complaint increased; the gout, his principal enemy, occasionally mounted
high up in his system, and we had considerable difficulty in keeping it
from the stomach, where it generally proves fatal. I now devoted almost
the whole of my time to my father, on whom his faithful partner also
lavished every attention and care. I read the Bible to him, which was
his chief delight; and also occasionally such other books as I thought
might prove entertaining to him. His spirits were generally rather
depressed. The absence of my brother seemed to prey upon his mind. "I
wish he were here," he would frequently exclaim, "I can't imagine what
has become of him; I trust, however, he will arrive in time." He still
sometimes rallied, and I took advantage of those moments of comparative
ease to question him upon the events of his early life. My attentions to
him had not passed unnoticed, and he was kind, fatherly, and unreserved.
I