“Not once!” replied Villiers. “Whether he be alive or dead--what has become of him, I cannot tell you. This uncertainty relative to her father’s fate is a cause of uneasiness to Adelais:--but every state and station in life has its annoyances and its sorrows. Poor Rosamond! she fell into a slow decline shortly after leaving England--and for nearly ten years did she linger on, wasting away! Adelais and I saw her once during that period: we visited Switzerland on purpose. Then how deeply was my wife shocked when she behold the wreck that remained of her once lovely and blooming sister. But I cannot dwell upon that episode in our lives----” “No--no,” exclaimed Perdita’s mother, now in haste to depart. “I will not distress you,” she added, with a hypocritical appearance of sympathy, “by exacting the painful narrative from you. Farewell, Clarence--farewell.” The generous-hearted Villiers proffered his hand to his aunt,--that aunt who was once so fine a woman, so elegantly dressed, and the mistress of a splendid mansion,--but who was now hideous to look upon, clothed in rags, and as yet homeless on the face of the earth! For a few instants her heart swelled with profound emotions as she pressed that hand which was thus kindly extended to her, and tears rose to the very brims of her eyes, but did not run over. Then she hurried away from his presence:--and the moment she set foot on the threshold of the dwelling--or rather, when its door closed behind her--she subdued the feelings that had well nigh overpowered her; and gave all her attention--all her interest--all her thoughts to the precious bag which she had concealed amongst her garments. “Well, mother, I thought you were never coming back!” cried Perdita, in a reproachful tone: then, perceiving by the old woman’s countenance that she had good news, she allowed her own to brighten up, as she hurried to meet her. “Perdita--we have now the means----” “Of obtaining shelter and a breakfast, I hope?” “Of purchasing good clothes--taking fine lodgings----” “Oh! then your nephew--or relation of some kind, whatever he may be--has behaved well!” cried the young woman, overjoyed by this intelligence. “A hundred guineas, Perdita--a hundred guineas in this bag!” exclaimed her mother, shaking the precious object of her avaricious worship: then, again concealing it beneath her rags, she said, “But come, Perdita: let us betake ourselves to another quarter of the town--for I have promised Clarence Villiers that he shall see my face no more.” The old hag and the handsome young woman retraced their way into the heart of London; and, arriving in the neighbourhood of Covent Garden, they entered an early breakfast-house, where they partook of a copious meal, to which appetite and good spirits enabled them to do honour.