on Mr. Boyne Sillery's hopes, and, she could not help adding, his sister's, too, from whose fertile brain she conceived that the plan of capture, or, at least, the information of the heiress, had emanated. She was not far wrong there.
Mrs. Clarke was one whose whole life had been a practical illustration of the doctrines of utility. The eldest daughter of a large family, with neither fortune, nor face meant to be one, Miss Sillery could not, at thirty, recollect a single opportunity which she had ever had of escaping the care of her mother's keys and her younger sisters. She had been saving and sensible to no purpose—in vain had the maternal side of the house eulogised her prudence, or the paternal her cookery—the house she was to manage with such perfection was not yet hers. However, as some Arabic poet says,
"The driest desert has its spring;"
or, as our own language less elegantly expresses it,
"Luck knocks once at every man's door;"
and the knock at Miss Sillery's door, and the spring in her desert, came in the shape of the Rev. Dr. Clarke; of whom little can be said, except that he was a lucky clergyman with
