of it. Pray, your honour,” continued he to Sir William, “can the ’Squire have this lady’s fortune if he be married to another?”—“How can you make such a simple demand?” replied the Baronet, “undobtedly he cannot.”—“I am sorry for that,” cried Jenkinson; “for as this gentleman and I have been old fellow sporters, I have a friendship for him. But I must declare, well as I love him, that his contract is not worth a tobacco- stopper, for he is married already.”—“You lie, like a rascal,” returned the ’Squire, who seemed roused by this insult; “I never was legally married to any woman.”

“Indeed, begging your honour’s pardon,” replied the other, “you were; and I hope you will show a proper return of friendship to your own honest Jenkinson, who brings you a wife, and if the company restrains their curiosity a few minutes, they shall see her.”—So saying, he went off with his usual celerity, and left us all unable to form any probable conjecture as to his design. —“Aye let him go,” cried the ’Squire; “whatever else I may have done I defy him there. I am too old now to be frightened with squibs.”

“I am surprised,” said the Baronet, “what the fellow can intend by this. Some low piece of humour, I suppose!”—“Perhaps, sir,” replied I, “he may have a more serious meaning. For when we reflect on the various schemes this gentleman has laid to seduce innocence, perhaps some one more artful than the rest has been found able to deceive him. When we consider what numbers he has ruined, how many parents now feel with anguish the infamy and the contamination which he has brought into their families, it would not surprise me if some one of them— Amazement! Do I see my lost daughter! Do I hold her! It is, it is my life, my happiness. I thought thee lost, my Olivia, yet still I hold thee—and still thou shalt live to bless me.” The warmest transports of the fondest lover were not greater than mine when I saw him introduce my child, and held my daughter in my arms, whose silence only spoke her raptures.

“And art thou returned to me, my darling,” cried I, “to be my comfort in age!”—“That she is,” cried Jenkinson, “and make much of her, for she is your own honourable child, and as honest a woman as any in the whole room, let the other be who she will. And as for you, ’Squire, as sure as you stand there, this young lady is your lawful wedded wife. And to convince you that I speak nothing but truth, here is the license by which you were married together.”—So saying, he put the license into the Baronet’s hands, who read it, and found it perfect in every respect. “And now, gentlemen,” continued he, “I find you are surprised at all this; but a few words will explain the difficulty. That there ’Squire of renown, for whom I have a great friendship, but that’s between ourselves, has often employed me in doing odd little things for him. Among the rest, he commissioned me to procure him a false license and a false priest, in order to deceive this young lady. But as I was very much his friend, what did I do but went and got a true license and a true priest, and married them both as fast as the cloth could make them. Perhaps you’ll think it was generosity that made me do all this. But no. To my shame I confess it, my only design was to keep the license and let the ’Squire know that I could prove it upon him whenever I thought proper, and so make him come down whenever I wanted money.” A burst of pleasure now seemed to fill the whole apartment; our joy reached even to the common room, where the prisoners themselves sympathized,

Happiness was expanded upon every face, and even Olivia’s cheek seemed flushed with pleasure. To be thus restored to reputation, to friends and fortune at once, was a rapture sufficient to stop the progress of decay and restore former health and vivacity. But perhaps among all there was not one who felt sincerer pleasure than I. Still holding the dear-loved child in my arms, I asked my heart if these transports were not delusion. “How could you,” cried I, turning to Mr. Jenkinson, “how could you add to my miseries by the story of her death? But it matters not; my pleasure at finding her again is more than a recompense for the pain.”

“As to your question,” replied Jenkinson, “that is easily answered. I thought the only probable means of freeing you from prison, was by submitting to the ’Squire and consenting to his marriage with the other young lady. But these you had vowed never to grant while your daughter was living; there was therefore no other method to bring things to bear but by persuading you that she was dead. I prevailed on your wife to join in the deceit, and we have not had a fit opportunity of undeceiving you till now.”