‘That's odd sort of talking. Ile might have provided decently for his widow, without leaving everything that he had to dispose of, or any part of it, at her mercy.’
‘My aunt may have erred,’ said Emma, warmly; ‘she has erred, but my uncle’s conduct was faultless ; I was her own niece, and he left to her the power of providing for me.’
‘But unluckily she has left the pleasure of providing for you to your father, and without the power. That's the long and short of the business. After keeping you at a distance from your family for such a length of time as must do away all natural affection among us, and breeding you up (I suppose) in a superior style, you are returned upon their hands without a sixpence.’
‘You know,’ replied Emma, struggling with her tears, ‘my uncle’s melancholy state of health. He was a greater invalid than my father. He could not leave home.’
‘I do not mean to make you cry,’ said Robert, rather softencd—and after a short silence, by way of changing the subject, he added: ‘I am just come from my father’s room; he seems very indifferent. It will be asad break up when he dics. Pity you can none of you get married! You must come to Croydon as well as the rest, and see what you can do there. I believe if Margaret had had a thousand or fifteen hundred pounds, there was a young man who would have thought of her.’
Emma was glad when they were joined by the
