heart, she resolved to withdraw entirely from her beloved Hamilton. She wrote her mother an account of what had happened, and also to her late employer, at Doncaster, praying an introduction to a correspondent in London, but desiring that the truth should be fairly stated, though confidentially imparted. Her employer by return of post complied with her request, sent her a letter to be delivered to an eminent milliner in London, informing her at the same time, that she had by another prepared the lady for Miss Collings’s visit. She accordingly repaired to the house of Mrs. Fashion, was kindly engaged, and (that being on a Wednesday) appointed to come to the house the following Saturday, and commence her labours on the Monday. It was now near the end of May, and our hero had established, through his reporting exertions, such a character and connection as insured him an engagement for the next season, should it be required; and he was preparing on a Saturday to visit his Collings, while she at the very instant was writing him a farewell letter;--when the postman’s knock called him to the door, and a letter was delivered in his mother’s hand, but hardly legible. Hastily opening it, he found these words: “My beloved William, your father is extremely ill, we fear dangerously;--lose no time,--spare no expence,--come instantly.” Though the letter had no date but Friday morning, it appeared to have been put into the Doncaster post-office, whence he concluded that they were now at Brotherton, and therefore trusted he would reach them in four and twenty hours. Having a credit on his father’s agent, he went immediately; in half an hour he was on horseback, for the sake of expedition preferring that mode to a chaise. His father dying was the only idea present to his mind. Leaving London about twelve, in ten hours he reached Stamford; where taking chaise during the night, he met the dawning day at Newark. At Doncaster he found his father’s servant waiting with horses, and learned that he was still alive and sensible, and calling every moment, “When do you expect my dear William?” Our hero galloped, without waiting to hear more, to the vicarge, and arriving before nine, found that his father was still alive, but that he had the gout in his stomach, and that the physicians had very little hopes. One, indeed, said he thought the paroxysms somewhat abated, and that this fit might leave him, but that he would be so much reduced, that another would certainly carry him off. Our hero having spent some minutes in the arms of his weeping mother, and venerable grand-father, the physician apprized his patient of his son’s arrival. “Do, dear doctor,” he said, “bring him to my embrace, he will do me more good than all your prescriptions.” William was introduced, and eagerly pressed by his languid father. He desired they might be left alone, and had signified to his son his highest approbation of his abilities, character, and conduct; when feeling himself exhausted,