Still, however, Frederick and Maria went loving on; and their hearts grew as one; so truly, so fondly were they attached to each other. George, who was somewhat of a plague to the pair of lovers, was luckily at Oxford, reading away till his head ached, to qualify himself for a degree, and the distant duties of the office whence he was to cull the bunches of diplomatic laurels, and whence were to issue rank and title, and ribbons and crosses innumerable. Things were in this prosperous state, the bark of life rolling gaily along before the breeze, when as Mr. Harding was one day proceeding from his residence, to his office in Somerset-place, through Charlotte-street, Bloomsbury, he was accosted by one of those female gypsies who are found begging in the metropolis, and especially in the particular part of it in question: ‘Pray remember poor Martha, the gipsy,’ said the woman: ‘give me a halfpenny for charity, sir, pray do.’ Mr. Harding was a subscriber to the Mendicity Society, an institution which proposes to check begging by the novel mode of giving nothing to the poor: moreover, he was a magistrate—moreover, he had no change; and he somewhat sternly desired the woman to go about her business. All availed him nothing; she still followed him, and reiterated the piteous cry, ‘Pray remember poor Martha, the gipsy.’ At length, irritated by the perseverance of the woman—for even subordinates in government hate to be solicited importunately—Mr. Harding, contrary to his usual custom, and contrary to the customary usages of modern society, turned hastily round, and fulminated an oath against the supplicating vagrant. ‘Curse!’ said Martha; ‘have I lived to this? Hark ye, man—poor, weak, haughty man! Mark me, sir—look at me!’ He did look at her; and beheld a countenance on fire with rage. A pair of eyes blacker than jet, and brighter than diamonds, glared like stars upon him; her black hair dishevelled, hung over her olive cheeks; and a row of teeth whiter than the driven snow displaying themselves from between a pair of coral lips, in a dreadful smile, a ghastly sneer of contempt which mingled in her passion. Harding was riveted to the spot; and, affected partly by the powerful fascination of her superhuman countenance, and partly by the dread of a disturbance in the street, he paused to listen to her. ‘Mark me, sir,’ said Martha; ‘you and I shall meet again. Thrice shall you see me before you die. My visitings will be dreadful; but the third will be the last!’ There was a solemnity in this declaration which struck to his very heart, coming too as it did only from a vagrant outcast. Passengers were approaching; and wishing, he knew not why, to soothe the ire of the angry woman, he mechanically drew from his pocket some silver, which he tendered to her. ‘There, my good woman—there,’ said he, stretching forth his hand.