Harry told me, that while in London, he lodged with Mrs. Wilson, who is quite a changed woman and as devout and serious as she used to be the contrary. He found her caring for a poor demented sullen creature who never spoke, but spent her whole time in twisting and untwisting a ribbon in her wasted hands. Mrs. Wilson was as tender of her as though she were her own child, serving her with the best of everything, and treating her with the greatest respect, though the poor thing hardly seemed to take a sense of anything. It was only just before he came away, that Wilson told him this wretched spectre was once the proud and beautiful Lady Throckmorton. She had found her former mistress sustained by the charity of some poor fallen creatures in a wretched garret (for it seems Wilson spends much time and money in visiting and helping the poor) and had brought her home to spend her last days in peace. The poor thing has a heart disease, and was like to die at any time. Never was a woman who had more advantages, or one who more wantonly threw them all away. She chose the world for her portion. She would have her good things in this life. But the world slipped from her grasp, and its fruits turned to dust and ashes on her lips. She did not sin in ignorance. She heard times enough, the voice which said: "This is the way, walk ye in it." But she chose her own way and it led her down to utter destruction. Poor thing, poor thing! I shall go to see Amabel to-morrow, but I know very well what she will say. THE END.