er it may
be, which trembles on your lip as you are about to leave this world for
another, and when it may be too late to formally revoke the testament you
now propose, shall be strictly carried out. That time cannot be a very
distant one, John Linden, for a man whose hair is white as yours."

It was preaching to the winds. He was deaf, blind, mute, to every attempt
at changing his resolve. The will was drawn in accordance with his
peremptorily-iterated instructions, and duly signed, sealed, and
attested. Not very long afterwards, Mr. Linden disposed of his business
in Mincing Lane, and retired to Holmford, but with nothing like the
money-fortune he had once calculated upon, the losses alluded to by Mr.
Flint, and followed by others, having considerably diminished his wealth.

We ultimately obtained a respectable and remunerative situation for
Thomas Linden in a mercantile house at Belfast, with which we were
professionally acquainted, and after securing berths in the _Erin_
steamer, he, with his wife and mother-in-law, came, with a kind of
hopeful sadness in their looks and voices, to bid us farewell--for a very
long time, they and we also feared--

For an eternity, it seemed, on reading the account of the loss of the
_Erin_, a few days afterwards, with every soul on board! Their names were
published with those of the other passengers who had embarked, and we had
of course concluded that they had perished, when a letter reached us from
Belfast, stating that, through some delay on the part of Mrs. Arnold,
they had happily lost their passage in the _Erin_, and embarked in the
next steamer for Belfast, where they arrived in perfect safety. We
forwarded this intelligence to Holmford, but it elicited no reply.

We heard nothing of Mr. Linden for about two months, except by
occasional notices in the "Hereford Times", which he regularly forwarded
to the office, relative to the improvements on the Holmford estate,
either actually begun or contemplated by its new proprietor. He very
suddenly reappeared. I was cooling my heels in the waiting-room of the
chambers of the Barons of the Exchequer, Chancery Lane, awaiting my turn
of admission, when one of our clerks came in, half-breathless with haste.
"You are wanted, sir, immediately; Mr. Flint is out, and Mr. Linden is at
the office raving like a mad-man." I instantly transferred the business I
was in attendance at chambers upon, to the clerk, and with the help of a
cab soon re