There is no situation, however wretched it seems, but has some sort of comfort attending it; and I found mine in the help and kindness of a fellow-prisoner, Mr. Jenkinson by name, who was awaiting trial for several acts of cheating and roguery.  I myself, indeed, had been one of his victims.

The fortune of my family, who were lodged in the town, was wholly and distressingly adverse.  Olivia was ill, and longed for me to make my submission to Mr. Thornhill by approving his marriage with Miss Wilmot.  When I had been confined a fortnight, Mr. Jenkinson brought me dreadful news—­Olivia was dead!  And while yet my grief was fresh upon me my wife came weeping to tell me that Sophia had been seized by ruffians and carried off.

The sum of my miseries, thought, I, is now made up; nor is it in the power of anything on earth to give me another pang.  Yet another awaited me.  My eldest son, George, to whom I had written, went to Thornhill Castle to punish our betrayer; he was attacked by the coward’s servants, injured one of them, and was brought into the very prison where I was confined.

The enemy of my family had now triumphed completely.  My only hope was in a letter I had written to Sir William Thornhill, telling him of the misdeeds of his nephew.  I was by this time myself extremely ill.  I sought to break from my heart all ties that bound it to earth, and to fit myself for eternity.

V.—­The Rescue

On parting from my unhappy son, who was removed to a stronger cell, I laid me down in bed, when Mr. Jenkinson, entering, informed me that there was news of my daughter.  He had scarcely delivered his message when my dearest girl entered with Mr. Burchell.

“Here, papa,” she cried, “here is the brave man to whom I owe my delivery; to this gentleman’s intrepidity—­”

A kiss from Mr. Burchell interrupted what she was going to add.

“Ah, Mr. Burchell,” said I, “you were ever our friend.  We have long discovered our errors with regard to you, and repented our ingratitude.  And now, as you have delivered my girl, if you think her a recompense, she is yours.”

“But I suppose, sir,” he replied, “you are apprised of my incapacity to support her as she deserves?”

“I know no man,” I returned, “so worthy to deserve her as you.”

Without the least reply to my offer, he ordered from the next inn the best dinner that could be provided.  While we were at dinner, the gaoler brought a message from Mr. Thornhill, desiring permission to appear before his uncle in order to vindicate his innocence and honour.  The poor, harmless Mr. Burchell, then, was in reality the celebrated Sir William Thornhill!

Mr. Thornhill entered with a smile, and was going to embrace his uncle.

“No fawning, sir, at present,” cried the baronet.  “The only way to my heart is by the road of honour; but here I only see complicated instances of falsehood, cowardice, and oppression.”