The last time that we caught a glimpse of the ruined family, they had arrived nearly at the end of their long and melancholy journey from Yatton to the metropolis. When before had such been the character of their journey to town? Had they not ever looked forward with pleasure towards the brilliant gayeties of the season; their re-entrance into an extensive and splendid circle of friends--and he into the delightful excitement of political life--the opening of the parliamentary campaign? Alas, how changed now all this! how gloomy and threatening the aspect of the metropolis, whose dusky outskirts they were entering! With what feelings of oppression--of vague indefinite apprehension--did they now approach it: their spirits heavy, their hearts bleeding with their recent severance from Yatton! _Now_, distress, desertion, dismay, seemed associated with the formidable name of "London." They had now no place of their own awaiting, thoroughly prepared for them, their welcome arrival--but must drive to some quiet and inexpensive family hotel for temporary shelter. As their eyes caught familiar point after point in their route through the suburbs--now passed at a moderate pace, with a modest pair of horses; formerly dashed past by them in their carriage and four--there were very few words spoken by those within the carriage. Both the children were fast asleep. Poor Kate, as they entered Piccadilly, burst into tears: her pent-up feelings, suddenly gave way, and she cried heartily; Mrs. Aubrey also weeping. Mr. Aubrey was calm, but evidently oppressed with profound anxiety. Still he affectionately grasped their hands, and, in something which was designed for a cheerful tone and manner, besought them to restrain their feelings, and thank Heaven that so far they had got on safely. "I shall be better presently, Charles," said Miss Aubrey, passionately, burying her face in her handkerchief, "but I feel quite _afraid_ of London!" Over the pavement they rattled, meeting carriages rolling in all directions--for it was about the dinner-hour, and in the height of the season; and it was the casual but vivid evidence thus afforded of their desolate position, this sudden glimpse of old familiar scenes, which had momentarily overcome the fortitude of Miss Aubrey. They drove to a quiet family hotel in a retired street running parallel with Piccadilly; they were all wearied, both in mind and body, and after a very slight repast, and much anxious and desponding conversation, they bade each other affectionate adieus, and retired to rest. They rose in the morning refreshed with repose, and in a much more tranquil mood of mind than could have been expected. "Now we enter," said Aubrey, with a cheerful smile, "upon the real business of life; so we must discard sentiment--we must not think of the past, but the future."