When Mr. Carmichael told me, early in the morning, that I was in England, the thought that I was in the same country with my mother thrilled me with delight, which, however, was not unmingled with apprehension lest I should seek and not find; lest disease and death had robbed me of her I sought. At the station in Euston Square I had parted with the telegraph agent, with many thanks for his kindness. I took his address, hoping that at some future time I might be able to reciprocate the attention he had bestowed upon me. I may as well say here that Mr. Carmichael afterwards came to the United States, and that I helped him to a situation which paid him ten times the salary he had ever before received, when he was as grateful to me as I had been to him. Morley's Hotel is in Trafalgar Square, at one end of the Strand. I had looked up Old Jewry in the Post-office Directory. The hall porter of the hotel had given me general directions, and I walked out into the Strand, and took an omnibus with the word "Bank" painted on it. On the top of the London omnibus there is a double seat along the middle, on which the passengers sit facing the buildings on each side of the street. I occupied one of these places. The Bank of England was my objective point, for Old Jewry was near it. I passed St. Paul's, whose towering height and blackened walls I recognized, and entered Cheapside--a name which sounded quite familiar to me. I descended from my perch when the omnibus stopped, and after several inquiries found the place I sought. Old Jewry was nothing but a narrow lane, and I had no difficulty in finding the number of Mr. Bunyard's office. I followed his name, repeated on the walls, up three flights of stairs; and by the time I had reached the third floor, I came to the conclusion that my uncle's agent was a person of no great consequence. He was fortunately in his room, a little apartment ten feet square, with no furniture but a desk and two chairs. Mr. Bunyard was a man of fifty or more. He stopped writing when I entered, and looked at me. "Mr. Bunyard?" I asked, as politely as I could, while my heart leaped with emotion. "The same," replied he. I handed him the letter, which he opened at once. He took from it a bill of exchange, which seemed to light up his face with satisfaction. "I am very happy to hear from my friend Mr. Thornton. I hope he is quite well. He does not mention the bearer of this letter," continued the agent, bestowing an inquiring look upon me. "He was not aware, when he wrote the letter, that I should be the bearer of it," I replied, evasively. "My name is Thornton." "I am happy to meet you, Mr. Thornton," he added. "How is Mrs. Thornton now?" I inquired, boldly, though my heart almost sank within me, when I put the question.