Your secrets were the preparatory step to the errors of Clement and Sibella. Had Sibella never departed from strict truth and sincerity, she had never formed her rash engagement with Clement. Had Murden never (with his dangerous refinements of fancy) longed secretly to view this rare child of seclusion, he had not battered his life and happiness for a sigh. And lastly, had I not given way to the fatal mistake that secresy could repair the inability of reason, I had, instead of availing myself of the ruin on the rock, ere now perhaps released Sibella by convincing you. And we had all been comparatively happy. Murden's unfinished letter from the village of Hipsley will show you his deplorable situation, and all that we know concerning the loss of our Sibella. I have six agents employed to discover her. But they wander blindly, for I have neither trace, nor supposition, to guide them. What can I do, Sir? if you have any advice to offer, I hope you will not withhold it, from animosity to me. Excessively do I love the friend I have helped to sacrifice, yet I can readily and sincerely forgive you the errors of your conduct towards her. Oh then, Sir, pardon mine, and in pity to the anxiety of my heart aid me with your advice and assistance. I do not even hate Mr. Montgomery; though I do despise him altogether. You suspected him of taking Sibella from the castle. I suspected him of stealing her from Mr. Murden. He was otherwise employed. I arrived in town, with my poor patient under my protection, yesterday evening, and resigned Mr. Murden to the care of his uncle, Sir Thomas Barlowe. When I drove up to my mother's door, I found it more than usually crowded with carriages and servants; hung upon the pillars; and, when several of my mother's footmen stepped from among the crowd, I perceived they were in new liveries adorned in the highest stile of elegant expence. Though it was impossible not to notice the uncommon glare of splendor that saluted my eyes, yet our changes have always been so various and profuse, I never thought of enquiring into the cause of the present. Unfitted by my dress, but still more by weariness of limbs and depression of mind, to encounter company, I retired to my chamber and to bed. This morning my maid attended me; and, with the natural hesitation of good nature in relating disagreeable tidings, she informed me--Mr. Montgomery was married to my mother. Sir, it is the fact. Last Saturday, my mother became the bride of your son; and the parade I witnessed last night was to do honour to the first complimentors of this extraordinary hymeneal.