“And now, Sir,” he said, preparing to take his departure, “will you add to the obligation already conferred by informing me where I can meet with Mr. Wood?” “With pleasure,” replied the woollen-draper. “He lives at Dollis Hill, a beautiful spot near Willesden, about four or five miles from town, where he has taken a farm. If you ride out there, and the place is well worth a visit, for the magnificent view it commands of some of the finest country in the neighbourhood of London,--you are certain to meet with him. I saw him yesterday, and he told me he shouldn't stir from home for a week to come. He called here on his way back, after he had been to Bedlam to visit poor Mrs. Sheppard.” “Jack's mother?” exclaimed the young man. “Gracious Heaven!--is she the inmate of a mad-house?” “She is, Sir,” answered the woollen-draper, sadly, “driven there by her son's misconduct. Alas! that the punishment of his offences should fall on her head. Poor soul! she nearly died when she heard he had robbed his master; and it might have been well if she had done so, for she never afterwards recovered her reason. She rambles continually about Jack, and her husband, and that wretch Jonathan, to whom, as far as can be gathered from her wild ravings, she attributes all her misery. I pity her from the bottom of my heart. But, in the midst of all her affliction, she has found a steady friend in Mr. Wood, who looks after her comforts, and visits her constantly. Indeed, I've heard him say that, but for his wife, he would shelter her under his own roof. That, Sir, is what I call being a Good Samaritan.” The stranger said nothing, but hastily brushed away a tear. Perceiving he was about to take leave, Kneebone ventured to ask whom he had had the honour of addressing. Before the question could be answered, a side-door was opened, and a very handsome woman of Amazonian proportions presented herself, and marched familiarly up to Mr. Kneebone. She was extremely showily dressed, and her large hooped petticoat gave additional effect to her lofty stature. As soon as she noticed the stranger, she honoured him with an extremely impudent stare, and scarcely endeavoured to disguise the admiration with which his good looks impressed her. “Don't you perceive, my dear Mrs. Maggot, that I'm engaged,” said Kneebone, a little disconcerted. “Who've you got with you?” demanded the Amazon, boldly. “The gentleman is a stranger to me, Poll,” replied the woollen-draper, with increased embarrassment. “I don't know his name.” And he looked at the moment as if he had lost all desire to know it. “Well, he's a pretty fellow at all events,” observed Mrs. Maggot, eyeing him from head to heel with evident satisfaction;--“a devilish pretty fellow!” “Upon my word, Poll,” said Kneebone, becoming very red, “you might have a little more delicacy than to tell him so before my face.”