worthy officer had set foot in Basinghall-street
for many a long day; and all three gentlemen
were naturally somewhat constrained and silent.

Frederick, the second son, was thirty-six;
William, thirty. Frederick hated indigo almost
as cordially as his brother Jacob; William had
scarcely a thought that was not dyed in it.
Frederick was an airy, idle, chocolate-drinking,
snuff-taking, card-playing, ridotto-haunting man
of pleasure. William was a cool, methodical,
ambitious man of business. Neither of the
three had ever cared much for the other two.
It was not in the nature of things that much
affection should exist between them. Their
temperaments and pursuits were radically unlike.
They had lost their mother while they were yet
boys. They had never had a sister. The sweet
womanly home-links had all been wanting to bind
their hearts together.

And now the brothers were met under their
father's roof, this memorable third evening in
April; and in the dark chamber overhead, already
beyond all help from human skill, that father lay
dying. They were all thinking the same thoughts
in the silence of their hearts, and in those
thoughts there was neither prayer nor sadness.
Poor old man! He was immensely rich—he was
pitiably destitute. No one loved him; and he
was worth Half a Million of Money.

Mr. Frederick Trefalden took out his watch,
swore a fashionable oath, and declared that he
was famishing.

"Have somewhat to eat, brother Fred," suggested
the captain; and so rang the bell again,
and ordered refreshments to be taken into the
dining-room.

The two younger Trefaldens exchanged glances
and a covert smile. Their elder brother was
already assuming the master, it should seem!
Well, well, Lawyer Beavington is there, and the
will has yet to be read.

In the mean time Mr. Fred and the captain go
down together; for the latter has ridden up from
Hounslow, and will not object to join his brother
in "a snack of cold meat and a bumper of claret."
Mr. Will, like a sober citizen, has dined at two
o'clock, and only desires that a dish of tea may
be sent to him in the drawing-room.

If anything could be more dismal than that
gloomy drawing-room, it was the still gloomier
dining-room below. The walls were panelled
with dark oak, richly carved. The chimney-piece
was a ponderous cenotaph in black and yellow
marble. The hangings were of mulberry-coloured
damask. A portrait of the master of the house,
painted forty years before by Sir James Thornhill,
hung over the fireplace. Seen by the feeble
glimmer of a couple of wax-lights, there was an
air of sepulchral magnificence about the place
which was infinitely depressing. The very viands
might have reminded these gentlemen of funeral
baked meats—above all, the great veal pasty
which lay in state in the middle of the board.
They were both hungry, however, and it did
nothing of the kind.

The captain took his place at the head of the
table, and plunged his knife gallantly into the
heart of the pasty.

"If thou hast as good a stomach, Fred, as myself,"
said he, growing cordial under the influence
of the good things before him, "I'll warrant
thee we'll sack this fortress handsomely!"

The fine gentleman shrugged his shoulders
somewhat contemptuously.

"I detest such coarse dishes," said he. "I
dined with Sir Harry Fanshawe yesterday at the
Hummums. We had a ragoût of young chicks,
not a week out of the shell, and some à la mode
beef that would have taken thy breath away,
brother Jacob."

"I'd as lieve eat of this pasty as of any ragoût
in Christendom," said the captain.

"Mr. Horace Walpole and Mrs. Clive were at
dinner all the time in the next room," continued
the beau; "and the drollest part of the story is
that Sir Harry and I adjourned in the evening to
Vauxhall, and there, by Jove! found ourselves
supping in the very next box to Mr. Horace and
Mrs. Kitty again!"

"Help yourself to claret, Fred, and pass the
bottle," said the captain, who, strange to say, saw
no point in the story at all.

"Not bad wine," observed Mr. Fred, tasting
his claret with the air of a connoisseur. "The
old gentleman hath an excellent cellar."

"Ay, indeed," replied the captain, thoughtfully.

"But he never knew how to enjoy his money."

"Never."

"To live in a place like this, for instance," said
the beau, looking round the room. "Basinghall-
street—faugh! And to keep such a cook; and
never to have set up his chariot! 'Sdeath, sir,
you and I will know better what to do with the
guineas!"

"I should think so, brother Fred—I should
think so," replied the captain, with a touch of
sadness in his voice. "'Twas a dull life—poor
old gentleman! Methinks you and I might have
helped to make it gayer."

"Curse me, if I know how!" ejaculated Mr.
Fred.

"By sticking to the business—by living at
home—by doing like young Will, yonder," replied
the elder brother. "That boy hath been a better
son than you or I, brother Fred."

Mr. Fred looked very grave indeed. "Will
hath an old head on young shoulders," said he.
"Harkee, Jacob, hast any notion how the old
man hath bestowed his money?"

"No more than this glass of claret," replied
the captain.

They were both silent. A footstep went by in
the hall. They listened; they looked at each
other; they filled their glasses again. The
same thought was uppermost in the mind of
each.

"The fairest thing, Fred," said the honest
captain, "would be, if 'twere left to us, share and
share alike."