my father had grown as green and mossy as a felled tree.

Ned Munro, the eldest hope of a proud but reduced stock, elected to
study for the medical profession.

"The life here," he remarked, vaguely indicating the distant houses
occupied by our respective sires, "may suit the old folks, but it does
not suit me." And he went out into the wilderness of the world.

After his departure I found that the life at home did not suit me
either, and so I followed his lead, and went, duly articled, to Mr.
Craven, of Buckingham Street, Strand. Mr. Craven and my father were old
friends. To this hour I thank Heaven for giving my father such a friend.

After I had been for a considerable time with Mr. Craven, there came a
dreadful day, when tidings arrived that my father was ruined, and my
immediate presence required at home. What followed was that which is
usual enough in all such cases, with this difference--the loss of his
fortune killed my father.

From what I have seen since, I believe when he took to his bed and
quietly gave up living altogether, he did the wisest and best thing
possible under the circumstances. Dear, simple, kindly old man, I cannot
fancy how his feeble nature might have endured the years which followed;
filled by my mother and sister with lamentations, though we knew no
actual want--thanks to Mr. Craven.

My father had been dabbling in shares, and when the natural
consequence--ruin, utter ruin, came to our pretty country home, Mr.
Craven returned me the money paid to him, and offered me a salary.