In the midst of his career there seemed a chance for his escape. It may be supposed that many intriguing women fixed their eyes on so desirable a match, and that many young ladies were willing to share the fortunes, for better or for worse, of the possessor of a fine estate. At last the hour and the woman came, and the Yorkshire squire fell in love with a young lady of singular beauty, half friend and half companion to a faded demirep of fashion, who, aiming at the gentleman herself, had committed the incredible folly of placing her friend’s charms in comparison with her own. To fall in love was to propose, to propose was in this case to be accepted, and the marriage took place. Immediately afterwards they left the metropolis--the squire’s income being much reduced by his liabilities--for his Yorkshire home, dreaming probably sweet dreams of the future, and building castles in the air, of which moderation and amendment were the foundation. For a period he kept them. A son, heir to the entail, was born to him, and soon after this he again made his way to London, for some reason which does not appear. Once more within this vortex of pleasure, his good resolutions failed him, and he was led to the same pursuits, the same pleasures, and the same vices. He forgot his wife in the charms of new beauties, he forgot his child, he forgot his home. He gambled, he betted, he hazarded his all, until one fine morning, after a deep debauch with some of his companions, where dice and cards with closed doors marked its character, he arose a ruined man. He had lost more than his whole life would redeem, the only security of the winners being his annuity bonds on the estate, and his various life assurances should he die. At the same time, he was aroused to a sense of the wrongs he had suffered; he saw that he had been the dupe of gentlemen sufficiently practised in the art of play to be called sharpers, and saw also, what was doubtless the fact, that he had been cheated to their hearts’ content. Almost mad, burning with consuming fire, he determined to be revenged. Another night he was resolved to try his luck, and by playing more desperately than ever, win back, if possible, the money he had lost, and then forswear the dangerous vice. With a desperate resolve to outwit them, in life or in death, he met the gamesters. He had hitherto arranged all the losses he had sustained, and his opponents were prepared to humour him. The doors were once more closed, the shutters were down to exclude light, refreshments were placed in an ante-chamber, and for thirty-six hours the last game was played. The result may be guessed. The squire had no chance with the men banded against him, and high as his stakes were, and wildly as he played, they fooled him to the top of his bent. Exhausted nature completed the scene, and the loser retired to his hotel. He was ruined, wretched, and reckless. He knew that if he lived it would be a miserable existence for himself and his wife,