“I am much obliged,” said Mary, hastening away again, “but I have little time for reading.”
“I should say my brother has done something for her in his will,” said Mr. Solomon, in a very low undertone, when she had shut the door behind her, pointing with his head towards the absent Mary.
“His first wife was a poor match for him, though,” said Mrs. Waule. “She brought him nothing: and this young woman is only her niece—and very proud. And my brother has always paid her wage.”
“A sensible girl though, in my opinion,” said Mr. Trumbull, finishing his ale and starting up with an emphatic adjustment of his waistcoat. “I have observed her when she has been mixing medicine in drops. She minds what she is doing, sir. That is a great point in a woman, and a great point for our friend upstairs, poor dear old soul. A man whose life is of any value should think of his wife as a nurse: that is what I should do, if I married; and I believe I have lived single long enough not to make a mistake in that line. Some men must marry to elevate themselves a little, but when I am in need of that, I hope someone will tell me so—I hope some individual will apprise me of the fact. I wish you good morning, Mrs. Waule. Good morning, Mr. Solomon. I trust we shall meet under less melancholy auspices.”
When Mr. Trumbull had departed with a fine bow, Solomon, leaning forward, observed to his sister, “You may depend, Jane, my brother has left that girl a lumping sum.”
“Anybody would think so, from the way Mr. Trumbull talks,” said Jane. Then, after a pause, “He talks as if my daughters wasn’t to be trusted to give drops.”