"Very happy to see you, madam; but still sincerely sorry——"
"Pray, Mr. Smyrk, don't revive a subject so painful to me. Sir Toby was a good man: I shall never—ne-ver forget——" And tears such us angels—or widows—weep, coursed down her cheek.
"I'm sure not, madam; and I must entreat you to believe how sincerely I sympathise with you on your loss, and how very sorry I am to be——"
"Ah! you are very—very good, Mr. Smyrk—very considerate; so was the good Sir Toby. But these papers——"
"—Will, I fear, madam, but create fresh sorrow. In fact——"
"Very true, Mr. Smyrk; anything that reminds me of that good old man causes my sorrows to flow afresh."
"In truth, madam," said the sympathising man of business, "there is something in these papers to cause just and deserving regret,—but still very little to remind you of him;—he has left you but 500l. All the rest of his property goes to his nephew."
"What! all?" exclaimed the relict of Sir Toby Plum.
"All, madam;—everything."
"Then I am the——" But the pillows of her ottoman only knew, as she buried her face in them, the superlative degree of misery to which she said she was consigned by the too prudent Sir Toby.