DAWLISH, DEVONSHIRE. You have not, my dearest Richard, answered my letters for months. I do not, however, presume to complain of your silence; I know well that you have a great deal to occupy your time, both in business and pleasure. But one little line, dear Richard,--one little line, surely that is not too much now and then. I am most truly sorry to trouble you again about money; and you must know that I strive to be as saving as possible; (“Pish--curse the woman; sent her twenty pounds three months ago!”) but I really am so distressed, and the people here are so pressing; and, at all events, I cannot bear the thought of your wife being disgraced. Pray, forgive me, Richard, and believe how painful it is in me to say so much. I know you will answer this! and, oh, do, do tell me how you are. Ever your affectionate wife, CAROLINE CRAUFORD. “Was there ever poor man so plagued? Where’s my note book? Mem.--Send Car. to-morrow 20 pounds to last her the rest of the year. Mem.--Send Mother H----, 100 pounds. Mem.--Pay Hockit’s bill, 830 pounds. Bless me, what shall I do with Viscountess Innisdale? Now, if I were not married, I would be son-in-law to a duke. Mem.--Go down to Dawlish, and see if she won’t die soon. Healthy situation, I fear,--devilish unlucky,--must be changed. Mem.--Swamps in Essex. Who’s that?” A knock at the door disturbed Mr. Crauford in his meditations. He started up, hurried the bottle and glass under the sofa, where the descending drapery completely hid them; and, taking up a newspaper, said in a gentle tone, “Come in.” A small thin man, bowing at every step, entered. “Ah! Bradley, is it you, my good fellow?” said Crauford: “glad to see you,--a fine morning: but what brings you from town so early?” “Why, sir,” answered Mr. Bradley, very obsequiously, “something unpleasant has--” “Merciful Heaven!” cried Crauford, blanched into the whiteness of death, and starting up from the sofa with a violence which frightened the timid Mr. Bradley to the other end of the room, “the counting-house, the books,--all safe?” “Yes, sir, yes, at present, but--” “But what, man?” “Why, honoured sir,” returned Mr. Bradley, bowing to the ground, “your partner, Mr. Jessopp, has been very inquisitive about the accounts. He says Mr. Da Costa, the Spanish merchant, has been insinuating very unpleasant hints, and that he must have a conversation with you at your earliest convenience; and when, sir, I ventured to remonstrate about the unreasonableness of attending to what Mr. Da Costa said, Mr. Jessopp was quite abusive, and declared that there seemed some very mysterious communication between you (begging your pardon, sir) and me, and that he did not know what business I, who had no share in the firm, had to interfere.” “But,” said Crauford, “you were civil to him; did not reply hotly, eh! my good Bradley?”