pelled the suspicion I had momentarily entertained,
and five or six weeks passed away, during which Andrews and his
affairs were almost as entirely absent from my thoughts as if no such
man existed.

About the expiration of that time, Mr. Jesse Andrews unexpectedly
revisited the office, and as soon as I was disengaged, was ushered into
my private room. He was habited in the deepest mourning, and it naturally
struck me that either his wife or son was dead--an impression, however,
which a closer examination of his countenance did not confirm, knowing as
I did, how affectionate a husband and father he was, with all his faults
and follies, reputed to be. He looked flurried, nervous, certainly; but
there was no grief, no sorrow in the restless, disturbed glances which he
directed to the floor, the ceiling, the window, the fire-place, the
chairs, the table--everywhere, in fact, except towards my face.

"What is the matter, Mr. Andrews?" I gravely inquired, seeing that he did
not appear disposed to open the conversation.

"A great calamity, sir--a great calamity," he hurriedly and confusedly
answered, his face still persistently averted from me--"has happened!
Archy is dead!"

"Dead!" I exclaimed, considerably shocked. "God bless me! when did
this happen?"

"Three weeks ago," was the reply. "He died of cholera."

"Of cholera!" This occurred, I should state, in 1830.

"Yes: he was very assiduously attended throughout his sufferings,
which were protracted and severe, by the eminent Dr. Parkinson, a
highly-respectable and skilled practitioner, as you doubtless, sir,
are aware."

I could not comprehend the man. This dry, unconcerned, business-sort of
gabble was not the language of a suddenly-bereaved parent, and one, too,
who had lost a considerable annuity by his son's death. What could it
mean? I was in truth fairly puzzled.

After a considerable interval of silence, which Mr. Andrews, whose eyes
continued to wander in every direction except that of mine, showed no
inclination to break, I said--"It will be necessary for me to write
immediately to your cousin, Mr. Archibald Andrews. I trust, for your
sake, the annuity will be continued; but of course, till I hear from him,
the half-yearly payments must be suspended."

"Certainly, certainly: I naturally expected that would be the case," said
Andrews, still in the same quick, hurried tone. "Quite so."

"You have nothing further to say, I suppose?" I remarked, after ano