Monteagle sprang down beneath the wharf, the tide having fallen, and left the sand bare. Here he found a large number of letters, and newspapers: the directions of many being wholly or in part obliterated. But among all that number, he could find none addressed to him. While he was turning over the letters, he saw one addressed to a young lady, whom he recollected as having been pointed out to him by Blodget when visiting the house in Dupont street. She was called the ‘English Girl,’ and Monteagle remembered having been particularly struck by the lovely though pensive expression of her fair face. He took the letter and immediately proceeded to the house where she resided. As soon as the usual greetings were over, the young lady opened the letter, but had scarcely glanced at its contents before she fell heavily to the floor. Monteagle summoned assistance, and after some time she was sufficiently restored to converse with our hero; who deeply sympathised with her evident distress. The poor girl, in answer to Monteagle’s inquiries, gave him the following account of her previous history: ‘My father was a farmer, in comfortable circumstances, which he gained by his own industry and exemplary conduct. I will not attempt to describe him, for I should fail to do justice to his merits, eloquent, doubtless, as my affection for him would make me. Let it suffice that he was a man of superior education, having formerly moved in a different state of life, from which he had been driven by a long series of misfortunes, and his numerous virtues even by far exceeded his accomplishments. My mother was a complete counterpart of her husband, and never were two beings better formed to meet together. I was their only daughter, myself and a brother being the only offspring they ever had. Every indulgence that child could wish, or parent could think of, was bestowed on me;—my every thought seemed to be studied by them, and there was not a single happiness which they had it in their power to grant, which they seemed to think too great for me.’ ‘Our home was the happiest in the neighborhood, and it was the envy and admiration of all who knew it. Again, when I think upon it, and how different my situation is now, I cannot help giving vent to my feelings; indeed, it is to indulge them that I have sat down to record the events of my life, although, in all probability, no other eyes but mine may ever behold it. Home, sweet home; there cannot be a theme upon which the mind of sensibility pauses with more peculiar delight than this. It is the cradle of our infancy and our age.’