Little Mary Kingsford, I should state, was, when I left Yorkshire, one of the prettiest, most engaging children I had ever seen; and a petted favorite not only with us, but of every other family in the neighborhood. She was the only child of Philip and Mary Kingsford--a humble, worthy, and much-respected couple. The father was gardener to Sir Pyott Dalzell, and her mother eked out his wages to a respectable maintenance by keeping a cheap children's school. The change which a few years had wrought in the beautiful child was quite sufficient to account for my imperfect recognition of her; but the instant her name was mentioned, I at once recognised the rare comeliness which had charmed us all in her childhood. The soft brown eyes were the same, though now revealing profounder depths, and emitting a more pensive expression; the hair, though deepened in color, was still golden; her complexion, lit up as it now was by a sweet blush, was brilliant as ever; whilst her child-person had became matured and developed into womanly symmetry and grace. The brilliancy of color vanished from her cheek as I glanced meaningly at her mourning dress. "Yes," she murmured in a sad quivering voice--"yes, father is gone! It will be six months next Thursday, that he died! Mother is well," she continued more cheerfully, after a pause: "in health, but poorly off; and I--and I," she added with a faint effort at a smile, "am going to London to seek my fortune!" "To seek your fortune!" "Yes; you know my cousin, Sophy Clark? In one of her letters, she said she often saw you." I nodded without speaking. I knew little of Sophia Clarke, except that she was the somewhat gay, coquettish shopwoman of a highly-respectable confectioner in the Strand, whom I shall call by the name of Morris. "I am to be Sophy's assistant," continued Mary Kingsford; "not of course at first at such good wages as she gets. So lucky for me, is it not, since I _must_ go to service? And so kind, too, of Sophy, to interest herself for me!" "Well, it may be so. But surely I have heard--my wife at least has--that you and Richard Westlake were engaged? Excuse me, I was not aware the subject was a painful or unpleasant one." "Richard's father," she replied with some spirit, "has higher views for his son. It is all off between us now," she added; "and perhaps it is for the best that it should be so." I could have rightly interpreted these words without the aid of the partially-expressed sigh which followed them. The perilous position of so attractive, so inexperienced, so guileless a young creature, amidst the temptations and vanities of London, so painfully impressed and preoccupied me, that I scarcely uttered another word till the rapidly-diminishing rate of the train announced that we neared a station, after which it was probable we should have no farther opportunity for private conversation. "Those men--those fellows at Rugby--where did you meet with them?" I inquired.