father would only trust everything to her management, he should never feel himself stinted; but he, for once, was incorrigible.
What happy hours Mary and I have past, while sitting at our work by the fire, or wandering on the heath-clad hills, or idling under the weeping birch, (the only considerable tree in the garden,) talking of future happiness to ourselves, and our parents, of what we would do, and see, and possess; with no firmer foundation, for our goodly superstructure, than the riches that were expected to flow in upon us from the success of the worthy merchant's speculations. Our father was nearly as bad as ourselves; only, that he affected not to be so much in earnest, expressing his bright hopes, and sanguine expectations, in jests and playful sallies, that always struck me as being exceedingly witty and pleasant. Our mother laughed with delight to see him so hopeful and happy; but still she feared he was setting his heart too much upon the matter; and once, I heard her whisper as she left the room,
"God grant he be not disappointed! I know not how he would bear it."
Disappointed he was; and bitterly too. It came like a thunder-clap on us all that the
