half smiling.

"Why no; now I think of it, I've a brother there, John Forster, or Jack,
as we used to call him. It's near thirty years since I heard of him; but
somebody told me, when you were in the West Indies, that he had become a
great lawyer, and was making a large fortune. I quite forgot the
circumstance till just now."

Newton had before heard his father mention that he had two brothers, but
whether dead or alive he could not tell. The present intelligence
appeared to hold out some prospect of relief, for Newton could not for a
moment doubt that if his uncle was in such flourishing circumstances, he
would not refuse assistance to his brother. He therefore resolved not to
wait until their means were totally exhausted: the next day he disposed
of all his clothes except one suit, and found himself richer than he
had imagined. Having paid his landlord the trifle due for rent, without
any other incumbrance than the packet of articles picked up in the trunk
at sea, three pounds sterling in his pocket, and the ring of Madame de
Fontanges on his little finger, Newton, with his father, set off on foot
for the metropolis.

Chapter XXIV

"I labour to diffuse the important good
Till this great truth by all be understood,
That all the pious duty which we owe
Our parents, friends, our country, and our God,
The seeds of every virtue here below,
From discipline and early culture grow."
WEST.

The different chapters of a novel remind me of a convoy of vessels. The
incidents and _dramatis personae_ are so many respective freights, all
under the charge of the inventor, who, like a man-of-war, must see them
all safely, and together, into port. And as the commanding officer, when
towing one vessel which has lagged behind up to the rest, finds that in
the meantime another has dropped nearly out of sight, and is obliged to
cast off the one in tow, to perform the same necessary duty towards the
sternmost, so am I necessitated for the present to quit Nicholas and
Newton, while I run down to Edward Forster and his _protegee_.

It must be recollected that, during our narrative, "Time has rolled his
ceaseless course," and season has succeeded season, until the infant, in
its utter helplessness to lift its little hands for succour, has sprung
up into a fair blue-eyed little maiden of nearly eight years old, light
as a fairy in her proportions, bounding as a fawn in her gait; her eyes
beaming with j