house as in the Lord Chancellor's?' I ejaculated,
looking full in his face.

'But don't you see, Miss, it is not a fair position to put your uncle in,'
replied he, after a little hesitation.

'But suppose _he_ does not think so. You know, if he does, he may decline
it.'

'Well that's true--but he won't. Here is his letter'--and he produced
it--'announcing officially that he means to accept the office; but I think
he ought to be told it is not _delicate_, under all circumstances.
You know, Miss, that your uncle, Mr. Silas Ruthyn, was talked about
unpleasantly once.'

'You mean'--I began.

'I mean about the death of Mr. Charke, at Bartram-Haugh.'

'Yes, I have heard that,' I said; he was speaking with a shocking _aplomb_.

'We assume, of course, _unjustly_; but there are many who think quite
differently.'

'And possibly, Doctor Bryerly, it was for that very reason that my dear
papa made him my guardian.'

'There can be no doubt of that, Miss; it was to purge him of that scandal.'

'And when he has acquitted himself honourably of that trust, don't you
think such a proof of confidence so honourably fulfilled must go far to
silence his traducers?'

'Why, if all goes well, it may do a little; but a great deal less than you
fancy. But take it that you happen to _die_, Miss, during your minority. We
are all mortal, and there are three years and some months to go; how will
it be then? Don't you see? Just fancy how people will talk.'

'I think you know that my uncle is a religious man?' said I.

'Well, Miss, what of that?' he asked again.

'He is--he has suffered intensely,' I continued. 'He has long retired from
the world; he is very religious. Ask our curate, Mr. Fairfield, if you
doubt it.'

'But I am not disputing it, Miss; I'm only supposing what may happen--an
accident, we'll call it small-pox, diphtheria, _that's_ going very much.
Three years and three months, you know, is a long time. You proceed to
Bartram-Haugh, thinking you have much goods laid up for many years; but
your Creator, you know, may say, "Thou fool, this day is thy soul required
of thee." You go--and what pray is thought of your uncle, Mr. Silas Ruthyn,
who walks in for the entire inheritance, and who has long been abused like
a pickpocket, or worse, in his own county, I'm told?'

'You are a religious man, Doctor Bryerly, according to your lights?' I
said.

The Swedenborgian smiled.

'Well, knowing that he is so too, and having yourse