“DEAR MORTON,--Something very awkward has happened,--not my fault, and very unpleasant for me. Your relation, Philip, as I wrote you word, was a painstaking lad, though odd and bad mannered,--for want, perhaps, poor boy! of being taught better, and Mrs. P. is, you know, a very genteel woman--women go too much by manners--so she never took much to him. However, to the point, as the French emperor used to say: one evening he asked me for money for his mother, who, he said, was ill, in a very insolent way: I may say threatening. It was in my own shop, and before Plimmins and Mrs. P.; I was forced to answer with dignified rebuke, and left the shop. When I returned, he was gone, and some shillings-fourteen, I think, and three sovereigns--evidently from the till, scattered on the floor. Mrs. P. and Mr. Plimmins were very much frightened; thought it was clear I was robbed, and that we were to be murdered. Plimmins slept below that night, and we borrowed butcher Johnson’s dog. Nothing happened. I did not think I was robbed; because the money, when we came to calculate, was all right. I know human nature. He had thought to take it, but repented--quite clear. However, I was naturally very angry, thought he’d comeback again--meant to reprove him properly--waited several days--heard nothing of him--grew uneasy--would not attend longer to Mrs. P.; for, as Napoleon Buonaparte observed, ‘women are well in their way, not in ours.’ Made Plimmins go with me to town--hired a Bow Street runner to track him out--cost me L1. 1s, and two glasses of brandy and water. Poor Mrs. Morton was just buried--quite shocked! Suddenly saw the boy in the streets. Plimmins rushed forward in the kindest way--was knocked down--hurt his arm--paid 2s. 6d. for lotion. Philip ran off, we ran after him--could not find him. Forced to return home. Next day, a lawyer from a Mr. Beaufort--Mr. George Blackwell, a gentlemanlike man called. Mr. Beaufort will do anything for him in reason. Is there anything more I can do? I really am very uneasy about the lad, and Mrs. P. and I have a tiff about it: but that’s nothing--thought I had best write to you for instructions. “Yours truly, “C. PLASHWITH. “P. S.--Just open my letter to say, Bow Street officer just been here--has found out that the boy has been seen with a very suspicious character: they think he has left London. Bow Street officer wants to go after him--very expensive: so now you can decide.” Mr. Spencer scarcely listened to Mr. Plaskwith’s letter, but of Arthur’s he felt jealous. He would fain have been the only protector to Catherine’s children; but he was the last man fitted to head the search, now so necessary to prosecute with equal tact and energy. A soft-hearted, soft-headed man, a confirmed valtudinarian, a day-dreamer, who had wasted away his life in dawdling and maundering over Simple Poetry, and sighing over his unhappy attachment; no child, no babe, was more thoroughly helpless than Mr. Spencer.