d, and my only hope is to repair your losses.

I am, etc., H. VAVASOUR MORDAUNT.

Such was the letter, so important to Mordaunt, with which our worthy
friend was charged. Bowed to the dust as Vavasour was by the loss of his
son, and open to conscience as affliction had made him, he had lived
too long for effect, not to be susceptible to its influence, even to the
last. Amidst all his grief, and it was intense, there were some whispers
of self-exaltation at the thought of the eclat which his generosity and
abdication would excite; and, with true worldly morality, the hoped-for
plaudits of others gave a triumph rather than humiliation to his
reconcilement with himself.

To say truth, there were indeed circumstances connected with his treaty
with Mordaunt's father calculated to vex his conscience. He knew that he
had not only taken great advantage of Mr. Mordaunt's distress, but
that at his instigation a paper which could forever have prevented
Mr. Mordaunt's sale of the property, had been destroyed. These
circumstances, during the life of his son, he had endeavoured to forget
or to palliate. But grief is rarely deaf to remorse; and at the death of
that idolized son the voice at his heart grew imperious, and he lost the
power in losing the motive of reasoning it away.

Mr. Brown's advertisement was unanswered; and, with the zeal and
patience of the Christian proselyte's tribe and calling, the good man
commenced, in person, a most elaborate and painstaking research. For
a long time, his endeavours were so ineffectual that Mr. Brown, in
despair, disposed of the two Indian jars for half their value, and
heaved a despondent sigh, whenever he saw the great Turkey carpet rolled
up in his warehouse with as much obstinacy as if it never meant to
unroll itself again.

At last, however, by dint of indefatigable and minute investigation, he
ascertained that the object of his search had resided in London, under a
feigned name; from lodging to lodging, and corner to corner, he tracked
him, till at length he made himself master of Mordaunt's present
retreat. A joyful look did Mr. Brown cast at the great Turkey carpet,
as he passed by it, on his way to his street door, on the morning of his
intended visit to Mordaunt. "It is a fine thing to have a good heart,"
said he, in the true style of Sir Christopher Findlater, and he again
eyed the Turkey carpet. "I really feel quite happy at the thought of the
pleasure I shall give."

After