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The next morning Rebecca, &longs;o dear to both their
hearts, recurred to their imaginations; George
beheld her in want, plunged in infamy, the horrors of
which her &longs;u&longs;ceptible heart &longs;everely felt, and from which
&longs;he could by no means extricate her&longs;elf.

“She may be in want,” &longs;aid his father; “but I'll
be d—d if &longs;he is infamous. I know the dear girl,
George, and I'd &longs;take my life upon her innocence. He
then gave his &longs;on an account of the manner in which he
found her in America, of the re&longs;pect and e&longs;teem &longs;he created
wherever &longs;he was known, and how much &longs;he was beloved
by Colonel Abthorpe's family. But let us go to
the hou&longs;e where the coach &longs;topped,” continued he; “&longs;he
will mo&longs;t likely call there to get her trunk.”

They went out together, and entered the hou&longs;e ju&longs;t ten
minutes after Rebecca had left it. Di&longs;appointed and
grieved, unable by any means to trace which way &longs;he had
gone, and fearing &longs;he would be di&longs;tre&longs;&longs;ed by the lo&longs;s of
her trunk, which might contain all her wordly po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ions,
they returned heavily home, and re&longs;olved to adverti&longs;e it.
This they immediately did in &longs;everal papers, in &longs;uch a
manner as it was impo&longs;&longs;ible for Rebecca not to know it
was her&longs;elf that was meant, though only the initials of
the name were u&longs;ed; but Rebecca never &longs;aw the papers,
and the repeated adverti&longs;ements were fruitle&longs;s.

George had introduced his father to Lord and Lady
Chatterton; but, thought Rebecca had been once or twice
mentioned before that Lady, he had always avoided entering
into explanations, and Lady Chatterton did not
know that &longs;he was the woman George had &longs;o long loved;
for though, in the earlier part of their intimacy, he
had frequently declared that his heart was engaged, he
had never &longs;aid to whom, or whether &longs;he was above or
beneath him in rank; but &longs;imply &longs;aid, he had no hope of
being united to her.

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On the day Lady Chatterton had met Rebecca at the
jeweller's, &longs;he mentioned the circum&longs;tance at dinner
time. George and his father that day dined with them.
“I wanted to buy it of her,” &longs;aid &longs;he, “for one of the
pictures was &longs;o like George Littleton, and the other was
a Lady, but I do not recollect who, though I think, I
have &longs;een the features before.”

“Good heavens!” &longs;aid George, “I am certain it
could only be Rebecca her&longs;elf.”

“I wi&longs;h it may,” &longs;aid the Lady;—“but I did not
think of it at the time I &longs;aw her: however, I have appointed
her to come here to-morrow.”

“How did the poor girl look?” &longs;aid old Mr. Littleton.

“Very pale,” replied the Lady, “and, I fear, is
much di&longs;tre&longs;&longs;ed by the agitation &longs;he di&longs;covered in her
countenance, and her vi&longs;ible reluctance to part with the
picture.”

“Oh! my poor lo&longs;t Rebecca,” &longs;aid George, and, rising
ha&longs;tily from table, left the room, to give vent to
tho&longs;e emotions he could no longer &longs;uppre&longs;s.

Rebecca, in di&longs;tre&longs;s, offering, with evident reluctance
the gold that enveloped his portrait to &longs;ale, convinced
him he &longs;till retained a tender place in her remembrance;
once to have been beloved by Rebecca would have been
his highe&longs;t wi&longs;h—now &longs;he was contaminated—lo&longs;t to virtue!
And, though &longs;till inexpre&longs;&longs;ibly dear to his heart,
&longs;he could never be his wife; yet &longs;he might be innocent.
Lord O&longs;&longs;iter was not a man of the &longs;tricte&longs;t veracity. He
would have given worlds for an interview with her, and
unable to wait the i&longs;&longs;ue of the morning, when &longs;he was expected
in St. Alban's-&longs;treet, he obtained from Lady Chatterton
a direction to the jeweller, and ha&longs;tened to Cockspur-street,
in hopes to be able through him to trace out
her place of abode; but the jeweller had never &longs;een her
before, and had hardly thought of her &longs;ince. He could
give him no information.

Tho&longs;e only who have felt the pangs of &longs;u&longs;pence can
imagine the anxiety of Mr. Littleton and George during
the night. The next morning they repaired early to St.

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Alban's-&longs;treet, but the day pa&longs;&longs;ed and no Rebecca appeared.
Another and another morning came, and &longs;till
brought with them di&longs;appointment.

“She will never come,”—&longs;aid George.—“The poor
girl is con&longs;cious of her unhappy &longs;ituation, and &longs;hame prevents
her taking advantage of Lady Chatterton's offers
of &longs;ervice. Mr. Littleton began to be of the &longs;ame opinion;
but the benevolent Lady Chatterton never went
out without leaving orders with her porter, that, &longs;hould
Rebecca call, &longs;he might be de&longs;ired to wait till her return.
“I will my&longs;elf,” &longs;aid &longs;he, “have the plea&longs;ure
of pre&longs;enting her to her uncle. She &longs;hall not be ha&longs;tily
informed that he is in England, left it &longs;hould overpower
her &longs;pirits, and if I find her worthy, I will give her to
her amiable cou&longs;in, and make her a fortune worth his acceptance.”

But unfortunately Mi&longs;s O&longs;&longs;iter's joy, the effu&longs;ions of
which was mingled with incoherent intelligence concerning
her uncle's, marriage, prevented poor Rebecca from
reaping any benefit from her Lady&longs;hip's kind intentions
in her behalf.

George Littleton had accompanied Lord and Lady
Chatterton in their morning ride. They returned together.
Mi&longs;s O&longs;&longs;iter came running to them as they entered
the parlour.

“Oh! dear aunt, who do you think has been here—
the greate&longs;t &longs;tranger! I do not think you know her; but
I told her I was &longs;ure you would be glad to &longs;ee her.”

“Why, who was it, my love?” &longs;aid her Lady&longs;hip,
&longs;eating her&longs;elf.

“Why, it was my own Rebecca Littleton; I knew
her in a minute, though &longs;he is &longs;o pale and thin.”

“And where is &longs;he?” &longs;aid George, almo&longs;t choaked
with ri&longs;ing emotions!

“She could not wait any longer,” replied the child;
“but &longs;aid &longs;he would call again to-morrow”

“Was ever any thing &longs;o unfortunate!” &longs;aid Lady
Chatterton.

George bit his lips, took ha&longs;ty &longs;trides backward and

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forward in the room, frequently &longs;truck his forehead with
his hand, but &longs;aid not a word.

In the afternoon the following letter was brought to
Lady Chatterton:

“Madam,

“Agreeable to your Lady&longs;hip's benevolent de&longs;ire, I
this morning waited on you in St. Alban's-&longs;treet, an honor
which the extreme illne&longs;s of my mother had prevented
my enjoying &longs;o early as I could have wi&longs;hed. While
I was, in compliance with your commands, waiting your
Lady&longs;hip's return from airing, I di&longs;covered that Lord
Chatterton and Sir George Worthy are one and the &longs;ame
per&longs;on; it therefore &longs;truck me that your Lady&longs;hip, having
&longs;een his portrait in my po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ion, might entertain but
an indifferent opinion of my character: It might al&longs;o occasion
unea&longs;ine&longs;s between my Lord and you, and interrupt
that felicity which I &longs;ervently wi&longs;h may be as permanent
and la&longs;ting as your lives. I thought it my
duty, therefore, to explain to your Lady&longs;hip the means
by which this portrait came into my po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ion.

“I once, Madam, lived in the family of the late Lady
Mary Worthy, more as an highly favoured companion
than a &longs;ervant. Indeed &longs;he was to me a generous
friend, a dear and re&longs;pected benefactre&longs;s, whom living I
loved with the affection of a daughter, and whom dead
I can never cea&longs;e to lament.

“Some months after her death, I received her portrait
as a pre&longs;ent from Sir George, by the hands of Mrs.
Harley, her Lady&longs;hip's hou&longs;e-keeper, but did not know
it contained the re&longs;emblance of Sir George him&longs;elf till
&longs;ome time after it had been in my po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ion; nor have
I &longs;een him &longs;ince, till about two months ago, when I
accidentally met him in the &longs;treet, and even then we
&longs;carcely &longs;poke to each other.

“Permit me, Madam, to return my thanks for the
unexpected bounty you &longs;o delicately be&longs;towed upon me;
to thank you al&longs;o for that benevolence of heart which
led you &longs;o far to intere&longs;t your&longs;elf in my behalf, as to with
again to &longs;ee me; to have enjoyed your friendly protection
would have been a cordial to my depre&longs;&longs;ed &longs;oul; to

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deserve it, the &longs;tudy of my life: but, alas, Madam, an insurmountable
ob&longs;tacle is placed between me and &longs;o enviable
a di&longs;tinction. Since I was &longs;o happy as to meet you,
a circum&longs;tance has occurred, which will prevent my again
having the plea&longs;ure of waiting on you: But permit me
to offer up the mo&longs;t ardent prayers for the continued happiness
of your&longs;elf and Lord. May peace and love ever
dwell in your bo&longs;oms, and pro&longs;perity crown your days.
Permit me al&longs;o to add, that however incon&longs;i&longs;tent my conduct
may appear, my heart will everflow with the mo&longs;t
grateful affection towards your Lady&longs;hip, while it beats
in the brea&longs;t of,

“I can't comprehend all this,” &longs;aid Lady Chatterton,
giving the letter into George Littleton's hand. He ran
his eye ha&longs;tily over the contents.

“But I can,” &longs;aid he: “I conceive it all; the dear
girl has never heard of the di&longs;covery of the real Sir George
Worthy. She imagines me to be your hu&longs;band, and the
genero&longs;ity of her &longs;oul will not &longs;uffer her to throw her&longs;elf
in the way of a man who once pro&longs;e&longs;&longs;ed to love her, and
whom, from the whole tenor of her conduct, I have reason
to think &longs;he loves.”

“I would lay my life &longs;he is a good girl,” &longs;aid Lady
Chatterton; “indeed her countenance appeared the index
of a mind replete with innocence and purity. I will
in&longs;tantly order the carriage, and go to her; nor will I return
without her.”

“Dear, generous Lady Chatterton,” &longs;aid George,
ringing the bell.

“Where is the per&longs;on who brought this letter?” &longs;aid
the Lady.

“It was brought by a porter, Madam, and he did not
&longs;top a moment.”

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The joy that had for a moment animated the features
of George in&longs;tantly vani&longs;hed. He again caught up the
letter, but there was no addre&longs;s annexed to it.

Ju&longs;t then his father entered, and they lamented together,
that now they were more than ever convinced of the
worth of Rebecca &longs;he had effectually &longs;ecluded her&longs;elf
from them.

“Overwhelmed with poverty too,” &longs;aid George,
and attendant on a &longs;ick mother, who may, perhaps, be
peri&longs;hing for want, not only of medical a&longs;&longs;i&longs;tance, but of
the comforts and nece&longs;&longs;aries on which exi&longs;tence depends.”

“We will u&longs;e every endeavour though to di&longs;cover
her retreat,” &longs;aid Lady Chatterton, wiping away the tears
that &longs;tole from her expre&longs;&longs;ive eyes, “and when we have
found her we will cha&longs;e &longs;orrow from her heart, and unite
our endeavours to make her forget &longs;he had ever been unhappy.”