eparture were all made, the good man (His Excellency
we call him now) canoe home to his dinner and sighed out to his wife:

"I wish, Molly, George was here. I may go away and never see him again,
and take his foolish little sweetheart along with me. I suppose you will
write to each other, children? I can't prevent that, you know."

"George is in the drawing-room," says mamma, quietly.

"Is he? my dearest boy!" cries the general. "Come to me--come in!" And
when I entered he held me to his heart and kissed me.

"Always loved you as a son--haven't I, Molly?" he mutters hurriedly.
"Broke my heart nearly when I quarrelled with you about this
little--What, all down on your knees! In heaven's name, tell me what has
happened!"

What had happened was, that George Esmond Warrington and Theodosia
Lambert had been married in Southwark Church that morning.

I pass over the scenes of forgiveness, of reconciliation, of final
separation when the ship sailed away before us, leaving me and Theo on
the shore. And there is no need to recall her expressions of maternal
indignation when my mother was informed of the step I had taken. On the
pacification of Canada, my dear Harry dutifully paid a visit to
Virginia, and wrote describing his reception at home.

Many were the doubts and anxieties which, for my last play had been a
failure, now beset us, and plan after plan I tried for procuring work
and adding to our dwindling stock of money. By a hard day's labour at
translating from foreign languages for the booksellers, I could earn a
few shillings--so few that a week's work would hardly bring me a guinea.
Hard times were not over with us till some time after the Baroness
Bernstein's death (she left everything she had to her dear nephew, Henry
Esmond Warrington), when my uncle Sir Miles procured me a post as one of
his Majesty's commissioners for licensing hackney coaches. His only
child was dead, and I was now heir to the Baronetcy.

Then one morning, before almost I had heard of my uncle's illness, a
lawyer waits upon me at my lodgings in Bloomsbury, and salutes me by the
name of Sir George Warrington.

The records of a prosperous country life are easily told. Obedient
tenants bowed and curtsied as we went to church, and we drove to visit
our neighbours in the great family coach.

Shall I ever see the old mother again, I wonder! When Hal was in
England, we sent her pictures of both her sons painted by the admirable
Sir Joshua Reyn