years ago; it was expected that they must marry; and so they were left, before their marriage, dependent upon fathers and brothers, as creatures that could do nothing for themselves.  Now, poor things, I really don’t know why, but girls do not marry off as they used.  They become old, and frequently—­owing to the expectation of their settling—­without the provision necessary for a comfortable old age.  This is the parent of those despicable tricks and arts which women resort to to get married, as they have no acknowledged position independent of matrimony.  Something ought to be done to prevent this.  And when the country steadies a little from the great revolution of past years, I suppose something may be thought of by improved teaching—­and systems to enable women to assist themselves, and be recompensed for the assistance they yield others.  Now, imagine your dear girls, those younger ones particularly, deprived of you”—­

“Here is the patient upon whom I must call, en route” interrupted the doctor.

The carriage drew up.

“I wish,” said Charles, “you had called here on your return.  I wanted the insurance to have been your first business to-day.”

“I shall not be five minutes,” was the reply.  The servant let down the step, and the doctor bounded up towards the open door.  In his progress, he trod upon a bit, a mere shred, of orange-peel; it was the mischief of a moment; he slipped, and his temple struck against the sharp column of an iron-scraper.  Within one hour, Dr. John Adams had ceased to exist.  What the mental and bodily agony of that one hour was, you can better understand than I can describe.  He was fully conscious that he was dying—­and he knew all the misery that was to follow.

CHAPTER IV.

“Mary my dear niece,” said Charles Adams, as he seated himself by her side; “my dear, dear niece, can you fix your thoughts, and give me your attention for half an hour, now that all is over, and the demands of the world press upon us.  I want to speak about the future.  Your mother bursts into such fits of despair that I can do nothing with her; and your brother is so ungovernable—­talks as if he could command the bank of England, and is so full of his mother’s connexions and their influence, that I have left him to himself.  Can you, my dear Mary, restrain your feelings, and give me your attention?”

Mary Adams looked firmly in her uncle’s face, and said, “I will try.  I have been thinking and planning all the morning, but I do not know how to begin being useful.  If I once began, I could go on.  The sooner we are out of this huge expensive house the better; if I could get my mother to go with the little girls to the sea-side.  Take her away altogether from this home—­take her”—­

“Where?” inquired Mr. Adams; “she will not accept shelter in my house.”

“I do not know,” answered his niece, relapsing into all the helplessness of first grief; “indeed I do not know; her brother-in-law, Sir James Ashbroke, invited her to the Pleasaunce, but my brother objects to her going there, his uncle has behaved so neglectfully about his appointment.”