This took place about six weeks before the evening I met the Captain. I immediately offered to introduce him to an army agent, who would advance him the amount of his following quarter’s half-pay. This offer he not only willingly accepted, but cordially thanked me for it; indeed, it had the greatest effect upon his spirits--he became quite another man--his countenance lost much of its melancholy; and it appeared he had previously much reason to be depressed; for he frankly informed me, that Greenwood’s had refused to advance money, and therefore, for the last six weeks, he had been obliged to have recourse to raising money by pawning his clothes. I hesitated not a moment in offering him the loan of what change I then had in my pocket, but he declined to take it; nor could I press him to the acceptance of it. He thanked me gratefully, and promised to meet me at the house we were then in, on the following day at two o’clock, for the purpose of going together to the agent. He paid for his welsh-rabbit and his half-pint of porter, cordially shook hands with me, and we parted. Poor fellow! as he feebly walked out into the fast falling snow, so thinly clad, I heartily wished that Heaven had thrown a cloak over his shoulders. I was true to my appointment next day; but the Captain was not. I waited an hour, and then left word for him with the waiter that I would come in the evening--and would remain until ten o’clock. I could not think what was the reason of the officer not meeting me, when it was upon a matter of so much importance to him. I went at night, according to what I told the waiter, but he was not there. I called next night,--he was not there. I now concluded that sickness, or perhaps death, was the cause; and regretted much that I had neither left with him my address, nor the name of the agent to whom I promised to introduce him; neither had I got his card,--certain of meeting at the appointed time and place, we both overlooked the necessity of interchanging addresses. What I am now about to describe, my readers will say is more of the romantic than the real: I must confess it looks more like the imaginative occurrence of a novel, than of actual life; but, at the same time, can assure them, that it is not romance--not imagination,--but fact. Three weeks had passed away, and I had totally given up the idea of meeting again this unfortunate gentleman. I had frequently gone to the house where we had met, but without finding him. I left my address with the waiter, to deliver, should he see him; but my card was never removed from the rack in the bar, where the waiter had placed it.