confession of my crimes, so implicated them with those which he has committed, as must ruin him in this world, if discovered; and as inevitably destroy his hopes of a better, if he do not repent. Should he ever dare to disturb the comforts of my son, by a declaration of his real affinity to him; should he ever dare farther to invade on your peace; he knows what must be the consequence. Actions, which will be recognisable in a court of justice, will determine his fate, and crush with ignominy his worthy and unoffending child. Obdurate as he is in sin, nature is not extinguished in his bosom. He loves his son, and, I am certain, would sooner die himself, than see him disgraced in the world: time may soften to him his present disappointment. I have urged to Philip every possible measure, in order to effect a reconciliation between him and his _uncle_ Flamall. He may, if he be wise, live on good terms with his son, and if he be not lost to conscience, he may find employment, for his remaining term of grace.” “You weep, my dear Harriet,” continued my poor Lucretia; I cannot. How many bitter tears of yours will swell my account; for I was born for your sorrow! and the ruin of the innocent! Can you give comfort to the broken and contrite of heart? Can you say you forgive me? “As freely,” answered I eagerly, “as I hope for mercy and pardon. I have also sinned, I have also erred.” “Yes,” replied she, with quickness; “but the snare was laid for you; and you only stumbled. _I_ boldly invited the danger, and made an acquaintance with guilt and perfidy; see to what purpose? to languish with a mother’s yearnings, to behold and bless that child, who would shrink from me as a monster, did he know me; to dread the future, and to mourn, too late, the wretchedness annexed to a life of guilt. Promise me,” added she, “to be still my Philip’s mother. Let me die in the hope, that, you will never forego the title.” “Never,” answered I, sensible only to her condition, “never, whilst it depends on me to preserve it; he is mine in affection, and nothing can cancel his rights to my love.” “May Heaven reward you,” exclaimed she, in an agony. “May that child’s children bless and revere you——My poor boy will not be surprised at the tenor of my last will,” continued she thoughtfully. “He is rich; and I have explained my intentions, in regard to my brother and Mary. It required very few arguments to prove, that they had not been justly treated. But let me not think of their wrongs! I wrote him word, that it was essentially necessary to my peace to consider them. His last letter was a cordial to my sinking soul; he urges me even to omit his name, if it interfered with my kind purposes; that he possessed _more_ than he wanted of the goods of fortune. Judge, adds he, when I tell you that my brother has frequently realized fourteen thousand pounds annually from his estates: Judge whether, my dear, I may say maternal friend and