acob?" said the old woman, crying.

"I hope I can; and if money can procure his discharge it shall be
obtained. But did you not say that he was ordered to the West Indies?"

"The regiment is in the Indies, but they are recruiting for it, so many
have been carried off by the yellow fever last sickly season. A
transport, they say, will sail next week, and the recruits are to march
for embarkation in three or four days."

"And what is the regiment, and where is the depot?"

"It is the 47th Fusiliers, and the depot is at Maidstone."

"I will lose no time, my good friends," replied I; "to-morrow I will go
to Mr Drummond, and consult with him." I returned the grateful squeeze
of old Tom's hand, and, followed by the blessings of the old woman, I
hastened away.

As I pulled up the river, for that day I was engaged to dine with the
Wharncliffes, I resolved to call upon Mary Stapleton, and ascertain by
her deportment whether she had become that heartless jilt which she was
represented, and if so, to persuade Tom, if I succeeded in obtaining his
discharge, to think no more about her; I felt so vexed and angry with
her, that after I landed, I walked about a few minutes before I went to
the house, that I might recover my temper. When I walked up the stairs
I found Mary sitting over a sheet of paper, on which she had been
writing. She looked up as I came in, and I perceived that she had been
crying. "Mary," said I, "how well you have kept the promise you made to
me when last we met! See what trouble and sorrow you have brought upon
all parties except yourself."

"Except myself--no, Mr Faithful, don't except myself, I am almost mad--
I believe that I am mad--for surely such folly as mine is madness;" and
Mary wept bitterly.

"There is no excuse for your behaviour, Mary--it is unpardonably wicked.
Tom sacrificed all for your sake--he even deserted, and desertion is
death by the law. Now what have you done?--taken advantage of his
strong affection to drive him to intemperance, and induce him, in
despair, to enlist for a soldier. He sails for the West Indies to fill
up the ranks of a regiment thinned by the yellow fever, and will perhaps
never return again--you will then have been the occasion of his death.
Mary, I have come to tell you that I despise you."

"I despise and hate myself," replied Mary, mournfully; "I wish I were in
my grave. Oh, Mr Faithful, do for God's sake--do get him back. You
can, I know you can--