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When Sir George Worthy left England, in order,
if po&longs;&longs;ible, to bani&longs;h from his remembrance Rebecca
Littleton, he had, previous to his departure, vi&longs;ited
his cou&longs;in Eleanor, and informed her of the &longs;tate of his
heart.

“I e&longs;teem you, Eleanor,” &longs;aid he; “but I do not love
you as a man ought to love a woman he takes for his
wife. To be candid, my heart is in the po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ion of another.”

“And to be equally candid, dear George,” replied
the lady, “mine is exactly in the &longs;ame predicament; yet
I do not know how we &longs;hall avoid making each other
wretched, for my father po&longs;itively &longs;wears I &longs;hall have you
or be a beggar, and my poor &longs;wain has neither name or
fortune to recommend him.”

“I mean to be ab&longs;ent two years,” &longs;aid Sir George,
“that will give you a &longs;hort reprieve. I will write to
you often, and if at any time I can be of &longs;ervice to the
man of your choice, do not he&longs;itate to command me.”

In the Earl of Chatterton's family was a young man
nearly of the &longs;ame age with Eleanor; he was a foundling,
and had been brought up and educated by his lord&longs;hip in
the &longs;tyle of a gentleman, and when at a proper age presented
with a commi&longs;&longs;ion.

Oakly, which was the name the Earl had given him
from having found him one morning at the foot of an
oak in his park, wrapped in a mantle, but without any
other cloathing. Oakly was a youth of &longs;trict honour,
and his heart overflowed with gratitude to his benefactor,
whom he con&longs;idered in the light of a father; but in&longs;pite
of honour, gratitude, and innumerable re&longs;olutions to the
contrary, he loved Lady Eleanor, &longs;ome how or other accidentally
acquainted her with his pa&longs;&longs;ion, and found himself
beloved in return.

Things were in this &longs;ituation when Sir George left

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England, and in this &longs;ituation remained when a letter from
Eleanor &longs;ummoned him to return, when he had been
&longs;carcely ab&longs;ent eighteen months. The Earl was ill, felt
him&longs;elf daily declining, and wi&longs;hed to &longs;ee his daughter
married before he died. He obeyed the &longs;ummons in
ha&longs;te.

Oakly was almo&longs;t di&longs;tracted. “But what am I,”
&longs;aid he, “that I &longs;hould a&longs;pire to the hand of my patron's
daughter, an out ca&longs;t, a foundling, without family
or name, dependant on his bounty even for the
bread I eat? No, I will not impede her union with a
man every way her equal, who po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;es honour and
goodne&longs;s of heart, and will do ju&longs;tice to her virtues. I
will leave England,” &longs;aid he.

Unable to deliberate on a &longs;ubject where inclination
and rea&longs;on were &longs;o much at variance, he flew to the Earl,
and &longs;olicited an exchange into a regiment de&longs;tined to
America. “Let me gather laurels in the field of battle,
my dear Sir,” &longs;aid he.

The Earl loved him tenderly. He pre&longs;&longs;ed to know
the cau&longs;e of this unexpected application, and refu&longs;ed to
exert his intere&longs;t in Oakly's behalf till he was informed.

“I love a woman of family and fortune,” &longs;aid he,
“I have &longs;ome rea&longs;on to think I am not indifferent to her,
and, knowing my own unfortunate &longs;ituation, I wi&longs;h to
avoid doing a di&longs;honourable action.”

“You will never act di&longs;honourable, Oakly,” &longs;aid the
Earl, “and this conduct is a proof of it. Who is the
Lady?—inform me —I will &longs;peak to her friends
in your favour, and give you a genteel fortune.”

“Oh! my generous benefactor,” cried Oakly, “indeed
it is impo&longs;&longs;ible; her parents never will con&longs;ent. I
dare not name her.”

“Come, come, you are too diffident: I am &longs;ure there
is no family, of the lea&longs;t di&longs;cernment, but would think
them&longs;elves honoured by the alliance. Come, who is the
paragon?”

“You mu&longs;t pardon me, Sir; I &longs;hould entirely forfeit
your friend&longs;hip.”

“You will undoubtedly forfeit it by this unkind

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reserve. I am willing and able to &longs;erve you, Oakly; but
if, by your ob&longs;tinacy, you put it out of my power —.”

“Do not call it ob&longs;tinacy. By heavens! Oakly, I
love you as my own child; only tell me how to make
you happy, and I will do it, though it co&longs;t half I am
po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ed of.”

“Ah! my dear Sir, I fear, when you know —.”

“Know what?” cried the Earl, impatiently.

“That I love Lady Eleanor.”

“Love Eleanor!” cried he, emphatically; then your
&longs;uit is indeed hopele&longs;s.”

Oakly's heart &longs;unk within him.

“You are indeed a noble boy, though,” &longs;aid the
Earl, “and from this moment I hold my&longs;elf bound, by
the mo&longs;t &longs;acred oath, never to &longs;uffer you to know the
want of a friend. Eleanor has, from her childhood,
been de&longs;igned for her cou&longs;in George; indeed, my late
&longs;i&longs;ter and my&longs;elf entered into a &longs;olemn engagement, that
which ever outlived the other &longs;hould &longs;ee this union completed;
that now is my ta&longs;k. If it is ab&longs;olately necessary
to your peace to leave England, I will procure
you the de&longs;ired exchange; but I could wi&longs;h, my dear
Oakly, you would conquer your pa&longs;&longs;ion, and remain
with us.”

“That is not in my power, Sir;” he replied, “to
be employed in actual &longs;ervice is now the only wi&longs;h I
have to make.”

The Earl did not mention this conver&longs;ation to either
his daughter or Sir George, and Oakly carefully avoided
an interview with Eleanor till he was really appointed
to a company of foot that was expected to go for New-York
in the cour&longs;e of a few weeks. He then, having
made the nece&longs;&longs;ary preparations for joining his regiment,
took a tender leave of her, a&longs;&longs;uring her it was his hope
to en&longs;ure her felicity by bani&longs;hing from her fight a
wretch who had &longs;tepped between her and her duty, and
who would rather die than have it &longs;aid he had ba&longs;ely stolen
the daughter of the man to whom he owed every enjoyment,
nay, almo&longs;t life it&longs;elf.

“'Tis all in vain,” &longs;aid Eleanor, “I can never love

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Sir George; nor do I think even the commands of a father
I love and revere can lead me to give him my hand.”

However, the preparations for the intended nuptials
&longs;till proceeded. Sir George beheld them with total indifference.
He had u&longs;ed every endeavour to di&longs;cover
Rebecca: he had, by various &longs;tratagems, traced her to
her embarkation with Mi&longs;s Abthorpe for America, and
was informed the ve&longs;&longs;el in which they went was reported
to have been lo&longs;t, and all on board peri&longs;hed.

“Rebecca lo&longs;t!” He remembered his mother's fir&longs;t
wi&longs;h to &longs;ee Lady Eleanor his wife. “She is an amiable
woman,” &longs;aid he, “and though I cannot love again
with the emhu&longs;ia&longs;tic ardour I experienced for Rebecca,
I will, if &longs;he voluntarily accepts my hand, exert my&longs;elf
to make her happy. She, like my&longs;elf, has experienced
di&longs;appointment in her tendere&longs;t hopes; we can at lea&longs;t
con&longs;ole each other, and make up in friend&longs;hip what we
want in love.”

Oakly had taken leave of his friends at Windfor, and
was on his journey for Port&longs;mouth. Sir George was in
town with the lawyers, and the Earl and Lady Eleanor
at breakfa&longs;t in the library, when a &longs;ervant informed them
that a clergyman reque&longs;ted to &longs;peak with them.—He
was de&longs;ired to walk up.

“I am come, my Lord,” &longs;aid he, &longs;eating him&longs;elf
with evident embarra&longs;&longs;ment, “from a poor woman in
this place, who, it is imagined, is at the point of death.
From &longs;omething &longs;he has imparted to me, I imagine it
is ab&longs;olutely nece&longs;&longs;ary for your Lord&longs;hip to pay her a visit,
as &longs;he has a circum&longs;tance to relate which nearly concerns
your family. She is likewife in di&longs;tre&longs;&longs;ed circumstances,
and may, while &longs;he lives, which will not be
long, require your benevolent a&longs;&longs;i&longs;tance.”

The Earl never wanted to be twice told of an object
of compa&longs;&longs;ion.—

“We will go directly,” &longs;aid he, and ringing the bell,
ordered the carriage. Lady Eleanor and the clergyman
accompanied him.

At a &longs;mall cottage, on the extremity of the fore&longs;t, the
carriage &longs;topped, and the clergyman led the way into an

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inner apartment, where, on a bed, expre&longs;&longs;ive of poverty
in the extreme, lay a poor emaciated figure, in the la&longs;t
&longs;tage of a con&longs;umption.

“Here is the Earl and his daughter, Mrs. Watts,”
&longs;aid he.

“They are very good,” replied &longs;he, “to come and
&longs;ee &longs;uch a wretch as I am. Oh! Sir, Oh! my Lady,
you will never forgive me; but I cannot die in peace till
I have informed you that, through mine and my &longs;i&longs;ter's
wickedne&longs;s, you have nouri&longs;hed an impo&longs;tor in your families,
and that the real heir to the late Sir George Worthy's
e&longs;ta e is either totally lo&longs;t, or may be a poor wanderer,
de&longs;titute of bread.”

The Earl and Eleanor &longs;at in mute a&longs;toni&longs;hment, gazing
at each other.—The clergyman exhorted the penitent
to proceed.

“My elde&longs;t &longs;i&longs;ter,” &longs;aid &longs;he, “was employed by the
late Lady Worthy to wet-nur&longs;e her &longs;on, and was left at
Twickenham with the child, while her Lady&longs;hip made
a &longs;hort tour to Flanders. During her Lady's ab&longs;ence my
&longs;i&longs;ter came to Wind&longs;or to me, bringing ma&longs;ter with her.
I at that time gave &longs;uck to a &longs;weet little boy exactly of
the &longs;ame age, who&longs;e mother had died at my hou&longs;e but a
month before. My &longs;i&longs;ter entreated me to take care of
ma&longs;ter Worthy for a day, while &longs;he went to town. I
con&longs;ented, and was proud of my charge. In the afternoon
(he was a&longs;leep in the cradle) I left a little girl to
rock him, and &longs;tepped about half a mile to purcha&longs;e
&longs;omething for &longs;upper again&longs;t my &longs;i&longs;ter came home. I
made what ha&longs;te I could, but on my return, what was
my terror, to &longs;ee the cradle empty, and my girl at play
in the &longs;treet? However, I did not make any noi&longs;e, or
alarm the neighbourhood; but enquiring of the girl who
had been there, &longs;he &longs;aid only two gyp&longs;ey women begging.
It immediately occurred to me, that the gold
bells and coral, together with the co&longs;tly lace cap and jam
the child had on, had been the incitement to this theft.
When my &longs;i&longs;ter returned &longs;he was almo&longs;t di&longs;tracted—her
character would be gone—&longs;he &longs;hould never dare face
her Lady again! That evening we could think of

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nothing in order to deprecate the &longs;trom we &longs;hould expect on
my Lady's return, till the diabolical thought pre&longs;ented
it&longs;elf of &longs;ub&longs;tituting my little nur&longs;ling, who&longs;e features
and complexion were nearly the &longs;ame, in the room of
ma&longs;ter Worthy, quieting our con&longs;ciences with the ides,
that, as his mother was dead, and his father poor, and
talked of going abroad, it would be doing a deed of charity,
and that, if we &longs;hould ever find the lo&longs;t in&longs;ant, we
might then acknowledge the fraud. Accordingly my
&longs;i&longs;ter returned to Twickenham with the child, the plan
&longs;ucceeded beyond our expectations, for we feared the penetration
of the &longs;ervants, and I wrote to the father of the
boy that his child was dead.”

“And who is it then,” cried the enraged Earl,
“whom you have thus infamou&longs;ly palmed upon the family
for the &longs;on of my &longs;i&longs;ter, and who was within a few
days to have been married to my daughter?”

“His father's name was George Littleton,” &longs;he replied,
faintly, “and he was chri&longs;tened after him.”

“And have you never heard any thing of my poor
cou&longs;in?” &longs;aid Eleanor, tenderly.

“Never, Madam; but &longs;hould he ever be found, he has
on his right arm, ju&longs;t below the &longs;houlder, the mark of a
mulberry.”

“Saddle my hor&longs;es—&longs;end off all my &longs;ervants,” &longs;aid
the Earl, &longs;tarting up; “he &longs;hall not go to that d—d
fighting place.”

“My dear father!” cried Eleanor.

“Rejoice, rejoice, my girl, for upon my &longs;oul the
young dog had that mark on his arm when I found him
&longs;prawling under the oak.”

“And is he alive, then?” &longs;aid the poor woman.
“Thank God—then I &longs;hall die content.”

Eleanor &longs;elt intere&longs;ted in the &longs;ate of the poor creature,
who had made this important di&longs;covery. She promi&longs;ed
to befriend her while &longs;he lived, and to take care of her
daughter, a girl about fifteen years old. She then returned
home with her father, who immediately dispatched
a me&longs;&longs;enger to bring his new-&longs;ound nephew to town
again.—While Eleanor retired to her apartment to

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reflect on the alteration a few hours had made, and how
much it had brightened her future pro&longs;pects.

George Littleton, as we mu&longs;t now call him, however
con&longs;cious of his innocence, felt greatly hurt at being &longs;o
long the u&longs;urper of another's name and property; but the
Earl would not &longs;uffer him to dwell on that &longs;ubject, and
on his marriage with Lady Eleanor. Sir George presented
his quandom rival with the writings of an e&longs;tate, worth
five hundred pounds a year, given to him and his heirs
for ever; and &longs;o fond were they of his &longs;ociety, that it was
but a &longs;mall part of every year he &longs;pent from them.

The Earl did not long &longs;urvive his daughter's marriage,
and Sir George &longs;ucceeded to the title of Earl of Chatterton,
the Earl having begged the rever&longs;ion of it for him
&longs;ome time previous to his death.

Mr. Littleton had given up all hopes of ever again
hearing of Rebecca.—He imagined her dead, but her
image was &longs;o deeply engraven on his heart, that he resolved
never to enter into the married &longs;tate. Sometimes
he would think &longs;he might, perhaps, have been his &longs;i&longs;ter,
for he had never heard her father's Chri&longs;tian name, but
his heart recoiled from this &longs;ugge&longs;tion She was undoubtedly
a relation, yet he had never heard Rebecca
mention an uncle, but &longs;he might have many; he had never
made many enquiries concerning her family.

One evening, when he was at a &longs;opper-party with
Lord O&longs;&longs;iter, that nobleman addre&longs;&longs;ed him with,
“George, I &longs;aw an old acquaintance of your's la&longs;t night.
Ah, now I think of it, &longs;he may be a relation.”

“Who do you mean my Lord?”

“Who! why who but that demure, primitive piece of
affected innocence, Mrs. Rebecca Littleton.”

“You mu&longs;t be mi&longs;taken, my Lord: I have every
rea&longs;on to think &longs;he has been dead &longs;ome years.”

“And I have &longs;ub&longs;tantial rea&longs;ons to think &longs;he was alive
la&longs;t night, and in my arms.”

He then gave an account of the affair at Lord Winterton's,
little to the honour of hour heroine. He al&longs;o averred,
that &longs;he voluntarily accompanied him in a chai&longs;e to a
neighbouring town, where &longs;he &longs;pent the night at an inn,

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but left it in the morning with a per&longs;on whom he imagined
&longs;he liked better.

“Poor girl,” &longs;aid George, mentally, “heavy mu&longs;t
have been the trials that drove her to a life of infamy.”

From that time he frequented every place where he
&longs;uppo&longs;ed it likely to meet with her. “I will &longs;natch her
from perdition,” &longs;aid he. “She &longs;hall &longs;hare my little
portion, eat of my bread, and drink of my cup. I will
&longs;peak con&longs;olation to a mind that was once as pure as angels,
and cannot without infinite pain, be intimate with
vice.”

About this time Lord O&longs;&longs;iter's extravagance had &longs;o
envolved his e&longs;tates, that it was nece&longs;&longs;ary he &longs;hould make
a trip to the Continent in order to retrieve them. George
undertook to &longs;ettle all his debts, and put the e&longs;tates under
proper regulations, and to this purpo&longs;e took up his
re&longs;idence in Bedford-Square. He had been dining out,
where the champaigne flew bri&longs;kly round, when he accidentally
met our heroine ju&longs;t de&longs;cended from the &longs;tage.
The wine gave him a great &longs;low of &longs;pirits, which, added
to the relation he had heard from Lord O&longs;&longs;iter, accounts
for the rude manner in which he acco&longs;ted her.

The blow he received from the old &longs;ailor almo&longs;t stunned
him: However, he followed him into the hou&longs;e, and
in&longs;i&longs;ted on &longs;atisfaction for the in&longs;ult, as he termed it. The
old man &longs;wore it was a blow given in a right cau&longs;e, and
that he was ready to give him a dozen more if he was
not already &longs;atisfied.

During this altercation the coachman came in with
Rebecca's trunk, and a&longs;ked where the young woman
was to pay him his fare?

“She is ran off,” &longs;aid a man who &longs;aw the tran&longs;action.

“Well then,” &longs;ays the coachman, “I mu&longs;t keep the
trunk for what &longs;he owes.” As he &longs;poke he re&longs;ted one
end of it on a chair near a table, on which &longs;tood a candle.

The old &longs;ailor looked at the directions, rubbed his
eyes, and looked again. “By all that's good,” &longs;aid he,
“it is my own girl, my Rebecca?—Which way did &longs;he
go? Let me follow her. Stand out of my way.”

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“Not till you have paid me,” &longs;aid the coachman,
&longs;urlily.

The old man threw down five &longs;hillings, and de&longs;iring
a waiter to take care of the trunk, ran out, followed by
George; but, in&longs;tead of turning into Pall-Mall, they
went through the Palace into the Park, their &longs;earch was
therefore vain.

As they returned &longs;lowly together, George a&longs;ked the
old man “if he was any relation to Mi&longs;s Littleton?”

“Yes,” &longs;aid he, “I am all the relation &longs;he has in
the world, and a devili&longs;h poor one too, for I have not
above half a guinea at this pre&longs;ent time in my pocket.
I have not been in London above two hours, nor in
England above eight and forty.”

“Is your name Littleton, Sir?”

“So my mother told me: I &longs;uppo&longs;e &longs;he knew.”

“Pardon me if I am trouble&longs;ome; but had you ever
a &longs;on?”

“Yes, but he died an infant.”

“You were informed he died at Wind&longs;or?”

The old man an&longs;wered in the affirmative.

“Ah! my dear Sir,” &longs;aid George, “you were deceived—
your &longs;on &longs;till lives—longs eagerly to embrace
you—and divide with you the competence he enjoys.”

By this time they had returned to the public-hou&longs;e.
George called for a room, knelt before his father, and
related to him all the reader is already acquainted with.
What wonder if, in the delightful hurry of &longs;pirits this
di&longs;covery occa&longs;ioned, they did not think of the nece&longs;&longs;ity
of writing a note for Rebecca, in ca&longs;e &longs;he came to enquire
for her trunk; but, &longs;atisfied with leaving a verbal
me&longs;&longs;age, they repaired to Bedford-&longs;quare, to enjoy the
plea&longs;ures of an uninterrupted conver&longs;ation.

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