Just as I spoke, my wife, whom I had not seen that day before, appeared with looks of terror, and making efforts, but unable, to speak. "Why, my love," cried I, "why will you thus increase my afflictions by your own? What though no submission can turn our severe master, though he has doomed me to die in this place of wretchedness, and though we have lost a darling child, yet still you will find comfort in your other children when I shall be no more." "We have indeed lost," returned she, "a darling child!—My Sophia, my dearest, is gone—snatched from us, carried off by ruffians!" "How, madam!" cried my fellow-prisoner, "Miss Sophia carried off by villains! Sure it cannot be!" She could only answer with a fixed look and a flood of tears. But one of the prisoners' wives, who was present, and came in with her, gave us a more distinct account: she informed us that as my wife, my daughter, and herself were taking a walk together on the great road a little way out of the village, a post-chaise and pair drove up to them, and instantly stopped. Upon which a well-dressed man, but not Mr. Thornhill, stepping out, clasped my daughter round the waist, and forcing her in, bid the postilion drive on, so that they were out of sight in a moment." "Now," cried I, "the sum of my miseries is made up; nor is it in the power of anything on earth to give me another pang. What! not one left! not to leave me one! The monster! The child that was next my heart! She had the beauty of an angel, and almost the wisdom of an angel. But support that woman, nor let her fall.—Not to leave me one!" "Alas, my husband!" said my wife, "you seem to want comfort even more than I. Our distresses are great; but I could bear this and more if I saw you but easy. They may take away my children, and all the world, if they leave me but you." My son who was present, endeavoured to moderate her grief. He bade us take comfort, for he hoped that we might still have reason to be thankful. "My child," cried I, "look round the world, and see if there be any happiness left me now. Is not every ray of comfort shut out, while all our bright prospects only lie beyond the grave?" "My dear father," returned he, "I hope there is still something that will give you an interval of satisfaction, for I have a letter from my brother George." "What of him, child?" interrupted I. "Does he know our misery? I hope my boy is exempt from any part of what his wretched family suffers." "Yes, sir," returned he, "he is perfectly gay, cheerful, and happy. His letter brings nothing but good news: he is the favourite of his colonel, who promises to procure him the very next lieutenancy that becomes vacant."