And fortified by this consideration, and the coffee, &c., Mr. Stevens walked into the residence of the Editor of the _Postboy_, and expressed his desire for an interview with that rather awful individual. There was a smile on his lips when he came out. He was engaged at a high salary to supply foreign news to the columns of the Whig paper. Mr. Buckley, the Ministerial agent, had spoken very highly of Mr. Stevens to the Editor. Mr. Stevens was rejoiced to hear it, and he told the truth for once when he said so. The Editor thought Mr. Stevens set a rather high value on his services. Mr. Stevens could assure him that he had received innumerable applications from the Tory side, and it was only his deep attachment to the Whig cause, and his respect for the _Postboy_ in particular, which had led him, by asking so little, rather to underrate the importance of the information he could supply. The importance, indeed, of the information which Stevens could have supplied would not have been overrated at double the figure; but of this little fact the Editor of the _Postboy_ was unconscious. Here we part with the Rev. Cuthbert Stevens. The rest of his life was a mere repetition, with variations, of what we have seen. The Whigs continued to take him for a Whig spy, the Tories for a Tory, while he himself cared in reality for neither, and was devoted but to one thing, and ready to be either, neither, or both, in the service and at the command of that Church which supplied to him the place of home, and parents, and friends, and God. And at the close of such a life followed the priest, and the crucifix, and the unction, and the false hope which shall perish, and the death that has no bands. Ere this Rome has employed, and destroyed, many a Cuthbert Stevens. What do the crushed devotees matter to the idol? Let the car of Juggernaut roll on! "Thou art become guilty in thy blood that thou hast shed, and hast defiled thyself in thine idols which thou hast made."[13] "In the cup which she hath filled, fill to her double."[14] Perhaps the greatest of Lucetta Carmagnoli's mercies was what she thought the bitterest of her sorrows--that she never knew what became of her lost child. It is time for us to return to France.