; 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.

"Heavens! do you know my name?" cried the woman.

"Mrs Watson, I do not require to read your son's letter--I know its
contents." He then turned over his book, and studied for a few seconds.
"Your son is alive."

"Thank God!" cried she, clasping her hands, and dropping her reticule.

"But you must not expect his ret