opened, she was carried in; and the gentleman, without any ceremony, walked in after her.

Jones and his companion were now together in a very well-furnished and well-warmed room; when the female, still speaking in her masquerade voice, said, she was surprised at her friend, who must absolutely have forgot her appointment; at which, after venting much resentment, she suddenly expressed some apprehension from Jones, and asked him, What the world would think of their having been alone together in a house at that time of night? But, instead of a direct answer to so important a question, Jones began to be very importunate with the lady to unmask; and at length having prevailed, there appeared-not Mrs. Fitzpatrick, but the Lady Bellaston herself.

It would be tedious to give the particular conversation, which consisted of very common and ordinary occurrences, and which lasted from two till six o'clock in the morning. It is sufficient to mention all of it that is anywise material to this history. And this was, a promise that the lady would endeavour to find out Sophia, and in a few days bring him to an interview with her, on condition that he would then take his leave of her. When this was thoroughly settled, and a second meeting in the evening appointed at the same place, they separated; the lady returning to her house and Jones to his lodgings.

CHAPTER VIII.

Containing a scene of distress, which will appear very extraordinary to most of our readers.

JONES, having refreshed himself with a few hours' sleep, summoned Partridge to his presence; and, delivering him a bank-note of fifty pounds, ordered him to go and change it. Partridge received this with sparkling eyes, though, when he came to reflect farther, it raised in him some suspicions not very advantageous to the honour of his master; to these, the dreadful idea he had of the masquerade, the disguise in which his master had gone out and returned, and his having been abroad all night, contributed. In plain language, the only way he could possibly find to account for the possession of this note, was by robbery; and, to confess the truth, the reader, unless he should suspect it was owing to the generosity of Lady Bellaston, can hardly imagine any other.

To clear, therefore, the honour of Mr. Jones, and to do justice to the liberality of the lady, he had really received this present from her, who, though she did not give much into the hackney charities of the age, such as building hospitals, &c. was not, however, entirely void of that Christian virtue; and conceived (very rightly, I think), that a young fellow of merit, without a shilling in the world, was no improper object of this virtue.

Mr. Jones and Mr. Nightingale had been invited to dine this day with Mrs. Miller. At the appointed hour, therefore, the two young gentlemen, with the two girls, attended in the parlour, where they waited from three till almost five before the good woman appeared. She had been out of town

to visit a relation, of whom, at her return, she gave the following account.

I hope, gentlemen, you will pardon my making you wait; I am sure, if you knew the occasion-l have been to see a cousin of mine, about six miles off, who now lies-in. It should be a warning to all persons (says she, looking at her daughters) how they marry indiscreetly. There is no happiness in this world without a competency. O Nancy! how shall I describe the wretched condition in which I found your poor cousin? She hath scarce lain-in a week, and there was she, this dreadful weather, in a cold room, without any curtains to her bed, and not a bushel of coals in her house to supply her with fire her second son, that sweet little fellow, lies ill of a quinsy, in the same bed with his mother; for there is no other bed in the house. Poor little Tommy! I believe, Nancy, you will never see your favourite any more; for he is really very ill. The rest of the children are in pretty good health; but Molly, I am afraid, will do herself an injury: she is but thirteen years old, Mr. Nightingale, and yet, in my life, I never saw a better nurse: she tends both her mother and her brother; and, what is wonderful in a creature so young, she shows all the cheerfulness in the world to her mother; and yet I saw her-I saw the poor child, Mr. Nightingale, turn about, and privately wipe the tears from her eyes. Here Mrs. Miller was prevented, by her own tears, from going on; and there was not, I believe, a person present who did not accompany her in them. At length she a little recovered herself, and proceeded thus: In all this distress, the mother supports her spirits in a surprising manner. The danger of her son sits heaviest upon her; and yet she endeavours, as much as possible, to conceal even this concern,

on her husband's account. Her grief, however, sometimes gets the better of all her endeavours; for she was always extravagantly fond of this boy; and a most sensible, sweet-tempered creature it is. I protest, I was never more affected in my life, than when I heard the little wretch, who is hardly yet seven years old, while his mother was wetting him with her tears, beg her to be comforted. Indeed, mamma, cried the child, I shan't die! God Almighty, I'm sure, won't take Tommy away: let Heaven be ever so fine a place, I had rather stay here, and starve with you and my papa, than go to it--Pardon me, gentlemen, I can't help it, says she, wiping her eyes: such sensibility and affection in a child-And yet, perhaps, he is least the object of pity for a day or two will, most probably, place him beyond the reach of all human evils. The father is, indeed, most worthy of compassion. Poor man, his countenance is the very picture of horror, and he looks like one rather dead than alive. Oh! Heavens, what a scene did I behold at my first coming into the room! The good creature was lying behind the bolster, supporting at once both his child and his wife. He had nothing on but a thin waistcoat; for his coat was spread over the bed, to supply the want of blankets. When he rose up at my entrance, I scarce knew him. As comely a man, Mr. Jones, within this fortnight, as you ever beheld: Mr. Nightingale hath seen him. His eyes sunk, his face pale, with a long beard. His body shivering with cold, and worn with hunger too; for my cousin says, she can hardly prevail upon him to eat. He told me himself, in a whisper-he told me-I can't repeat it-he said, he could not bear to eat the bread his children wanted. And yet, can you believe it, gentlemen? in all this misery, his wife has as good caudle as if she lay-in in the midst

of the greatest affluence; I tasted it, and I scarce ever tasted better. The means of procuring her this, he said, he believed was sent him by an angel from heaven. I know not what he meant; for I had not spirits enough to ask a single question.

This was a love-match, as they call it, on both sides; that is, a match between two beggars. I must indeed say, I never saw a fonder couple; but what is their fondness good for, but to torment each other?--Indeed, mamma, cries Nancy, I have always looked on my cousin Anderson (for that was her name) as one of the happiest of women.-I am sure, says Mrs. Miller, the case at present is much otherwise for any one might have discerned, that the tender consideration of each other's sufferings makes the most intolerable part of their calamity, both to the husband and the wife; compared to which, hunger and cold, as they affect their own persons only, are scarce evils. Nay, the very children, the youngest, which is not two years old, excepted, feel in the same manner; for they are a most loving family; and if they had but a bare competency, would be the happiest people in the world.-I never saw the least sign of misery at her house, replied Nancy; I am sure my heart bleeds for what you now tell me.—O child, answered the mother, she hath always endeavoured to make the best of every thing. They have always been in great distress; but, indeed, this absolute ruin hath been brought upon them by others. The poor man was bail for the villain his brother; and, about a week ago, the very day before her lying-in, their goods were all carried away, and sold by an execution. He sent a letter to me of it by one of the bailiffs, which the villain never delivered. What must he think of my suffering a week to pass before he heard of me?