“My dear Maria, it is enough to say that Dr. Turbot is in a position immeasurably more distressed and dreadful than ours. Purcel, his proctor, has been able to receive only about fifty pounds out of his usual half-yearly income of eight hundred. From him we are to expect nothing at present. I know not, in fact, how he and his family will bear this dreadful privation; for dreadful it must be to those who have lived in the enjoyment of such luxuries.” “That is indeed dreadful to such a family, and I pity them from my heart,” replied his wife; “but, dearest,Charles, what are we to do?--except a small crust of bread, there is no food in the house for either them or you.” As she uttered the words their eyes met, and his gentle and soothing Maria, who had been sitting beside him, threw herself upon his bosom--he clasped his arms around her--pressed her with melancholy affection to his heart, and they both wept together. At length he added, “But you think not of yourself, my Maria.” “I!” she replied; “ah! what am I? Anything, you know, will suffice for me--but you and they, my dearest Charles--and then poor Lilly, the servant; but, dearest,” she exclaimed, with a fresh, and if possible, a more tender embrace, “I am not at all repining--I am happy with you--happy, happy--and never, never, did I regret the loss of my great and powerful friends less than I do at this moment, which enables me to see and appreciate the virtues and affection to which my heart is wedded, and which I long since appreciated.” Her husband forced a smile, and kissed her with an air of cheerfulness. “Pardon me,” he said, “dearest Maria, for two or three minutes I wish to go to the library to make a memorandum. I will soon return.” He then left her, after a tender embrace, and retired, as he said, to the library, where, smote to the heart by his admiration of her affection and greatness of mind, he sat down, and whilst he reflected on the destitution to which he had brought the granddaughter of an earl, he wept bitterly for several minutes. It was from this peculiar state of feeling that he was called upon to hear an account of the attempted assassination, with which the reader is already acquainted.