"Beg pardon.--Thousands of pardons--It's the worst of me, I'm so imperdent, you see!--can't help it--been so from child--never could keep my hands off a fine woman! and Mrs. Smith is confined, you see: that's one thing! Hay? Hay? but it shan't happen again. Now about those here bills? If I draw you up two more, now, will you really give me your word they shall be paid?" "No," answered I. "You wont?" "No!" "Then I'll tell you what, Miss! I can't say as you treat me exactly like a lady, and--now don't laugh--oh, you sly, pretty rogue!--Hay? Hay? Beg pardon--it's my own fault, you see. So very imperdent! Come, I'll draw up these here bills." He began writing, and I laughed at him again. He shook his head at me. "Sad doings, Miss, these here bills being returned." "It's the worst of me," said I, mimicking his manner. "It's the worst of me, that I never do pay my bills. Have been so from a child!" Lord Ponsonby's well-known rap at the door occasioned Smith to be bundled into the street, bills and all, without the slightest ceremony. I have, I believe, already said that I would not dwell much on that period of my life, which I passed so happily with Lord Ponsonby and which lasted, I think, three years. Lord Rivers used to say to me, "Your little light feet seem scarcely to touch the earth, as though you could almost fly!" Happiness is a stupid subject to write upon, therefore I will revert to that of the present Lady Berwick, whom I often visited after she took possession of the poor humble lodging which Deerhurst's parsimony had provided for her. First, however, the respect I feel for the memory of a most tender parent, makes me anxious that she should be acquitted from every shadow of blame which might, by some perhaps, be imputed to her, in consequence of her daughters' errors and the life they fell into. My mother was a natural daughter of a country gentleman, of great respectability and good estate, Mr. Cheney. His only son, General Cheney, was an old guardsman, and died some few years ago. The late Lady Frederick Campbell, aunt of his grace the Duke of Argyle, was so struck with the beauty of my mother as to adopt her and bring her up as her own child. After her marriage, her ladyship still continued her friendship and, indeed, almost up to the time of the very lamented death of that amiable lady.