better shelter me, than many in the Square have done those who passed me in all their glory and pride.” “Was Mr. Flamall one of those who lived too fast for his holding the station he was in when I knew him?” asked I, “Oh dear no,” replied she, “there was no fear of that, he knew too well how to get money to be in danger of being poor. He sold his house when he married his sister to a rich old man, and took rooms in Lincoln’s Inn, he was too high to be called an attorney, and it has been forsooth _counsellor_ Flamall from that time.” “I must find him,” observed I, “for I have some business with him _as an attorney_. A relation of mine left him to manage her affairs when she died, and I shall expect my little legacy” “I wish you may find it,” answered she, “but they say he is a sharp one, and loves money.” It was a shame to marry, as he did, that beautiful young creature his sister, to an old hunks of seventy. “But I suppose the young lady was consulted,” observed I. “I suppose so too,” answered she, “for, God be praised, they cannot in this country force a poor girl to the altar; but, as I have been told, Miss Flamall was broken-hearted for the loss of a sweetheart, and for a long time thought to be dying, and she did not care what became of her honour; she has been lucky on the whole, for the old man soon left her a widow, and she married a very proper looking gentleman; and is now called my lady. But it is years since I have seen her; and she may or may not be living; for she went into the North with her first husband, and I have never seen her since; nor should I have known thus much, but from an acquaintance, who lived sometime with her as cook, when she kept her brother’s house.” “What was the girl’s name?” asked I. “I remember one who lived in the family at the time my aunt died, when I was frequently at the house on the business in question.” “Mary Nutt,” replied she, without embarrassment; “but she married, and died in child-bed, poor soul!” My enquiries terminated here, my agonies were not to be concealed, and hastily rising, observing that I should be late, I withdrew; the woman loudly calling to me to take my change. It was already dark; and the intelligence I had received had harrowed up every image of despair in my benighted soul. Shall I retrace the horrors of that night, when wandering from street to street, my footsteps conducted me to the river side? I stopped: I summed up the blessings I had lost. I became desperate, Harriet! The moment of perdition was suspended by a watchman’s passing me, who roughly asked me what I was about. I replied, that I wanted a boat. “You will do well to wait till day break,” answered he, surveying me with attention. “Come, my poor fellow, let me show you a house where you will be safe.” Subdued by the gracious interposition which had saved me, I burst into tears, and thanking the man, I said, I would walk to my ship, naming it and Captain Nelson. “You