She started, and turned pale.  “I would ask—­”

“I know; thou wouldst ask many things, perhaps, had I time to listen.  Amongst others thou wouldst ask if there is any chance of thy giving an heir to thy husband.  Is it not so?”

“Yes, it is,” replied the lady, fetching her breath.

“So do I perceive by this book; but let me put one question to thee.  Wouldst thou have blessings showered on thee, yet do no good?  Thou art wealthy—­yet what dost thou and thy husband do with these riches?  Are ye liberal?  No.  Give, and it shall be given.  I have said.”

Aristodemus waved his hand, and the lady rose to withdraw.  A guinea was in her fingers, and her purse in her hand; she took out four more, and added them to the other, and laid them on the table.

“’Tis well, lady; charity shall plead for thee.  Artolphe, let that money be distributed among the poor.”

I bowed in silence, and the lady retired.

“Who will say that I do no good,” observed Melchior, smiling, as soon as she was gone, “Her avarice and that of her husband are as notorious as their anxiety for children.  Now, if I persuade them to be liberal, I do service.”

“But you have given her hopes.”

“I have, and the very hope will do more to further their wishes than anything else.  It is despair which too often prevents those who have no children, from having any.  How often do you see a couple, who, after years waiting for children, have at last given up their hope, and resigned themselves to the dispensations of Providence, and then, when their anxiety has subsided, have obtained a family?  Japhet, I am a shrewd observer of human nature.”

“That I believe,” replied I; “but I do not believe your last remark to be correct—­but Timothy raps at the door.”

Another lady entered the room, and then started back, as if she would retreat, so surprised was she at the appearance of the Great Aristodemus; but as Timothy had turned the key, her escape was impossible.  She was unknown to us, which was rather awkward; but Melchior raised his eyes from his book, and waved his hand as before, that she should be seated.  With some trepidation she stated, that she was a widow, whose dependence was upon an only son now at sea; that she had not heard of him for a long while, and was afraid that some accident had happened; that she was in the greatest distress—­“and,” continued she, “I have nothing to offer but this ring.  Can you tell me if he is yet alive?” cried she, bursting into tears; “but if you have not the art you pretend to, O do not rob a poor, friendless creature, but let me depart!”

“When did you receive your last letter from him?” said Melchior.

“It is now seven months—­dated from Bahia,” replied she, pulling it out of her reticule, and covering her face with her handkerchief.

Melchior caught the address, and then turned the letter over on the other side, as it lay on the table.  “Mrs Watson,” said he.