sternness of purpose, amounting almost to implacability. She was not above the middle height; and her carriage was more commanding than graceful:--at the same time, it would have struck a beholder that were she attired in a befitting manner, her gait and gestures would have been characterised by nothing positively inelegant. The reader will perceive that great, in many respects, was the contrast between the mother and daughter--for in such close relationship did the two females stand to each other: but in some points there was a marked resemblance. For instance, the countenances of both indicated strong passions and indomitable resolution;--both were totally devoid of all moral principle, though they could simulate the sanctity of anchorites to suit their purposes or serve their interests;--and both could be implacable enemies, while friendship was a mere name with them at which their lips would curl into a sneer. In spite of her natural energies and the somewhat substantial remains of physical strength, the old woman dragged herself slowly and painfully along the road towards London; while her daughter exhibited scarcely less evident symptoms of fatigue--approaching almost to total exhaustion. “Perdita,” said the harridan, suddenly breaking a silence that had been of long duration,--“Perdita,” she repeated, “we cannot reach London this night: it will be impossible,--I feel it will be impossible.” “Then we must lie down by the road-side and perish with hunger,” answered the young woman, who bore, it seemed, the singular Christian name of _Perdita_. We have above spoken of contrasts and resemblances in respect to these two females, who are destined to play no unimportant part in the forthcoming chapters of our narrative;--but we must pause to observe that it would be impossible to conceive a greater discrepancy in tones than that which marked the voices of mother and daughter. The voice of the old woman was masculine--hoarse--disagreeable--and grating to the ear; and although she spoke the English language with the most grammatical punctuality, and there was nothing positively vulgar in her manner of speech, yet the impression it seemed calculated to produce upon a stranger was singularly unpleasant. On the other hand, the whole sphere of harmony has known nothing more melodious than the voice of Perdita,--a voice which was capable of many modulations, each characterised by a charm peculiar to itself; for whether she were speaking in indignation--or in softness,--in outbursting passion--or in dogged ill-humour,--still were the tones of that voice metallic, rich, and flowing. “The heartless wretches!” exclaimed the old woman, again breaking an interval of silence,--“to thrust us on shore at Deal with only a shilling in our pockets!” “This is not the least hardship we have ever endured, mother,” said Perdita, rather in a tone of remonstrance than consolation. “For my part, I have scarcely ever seen any thing but privation and misery----”