“And is this really true?” cries Amelia.

“Yes, really and sincerely,” cries the doctor, “the whole estate—­for your mother left it you all; and it is as surely yours as if you were already in possession.”

“Gracious heaven!” cries she, falling on her knees, “I thank you!” And then, starting up, she ran to her husband, and embracing him, cried, “My dear love, I wish you joy!  It is upon yours and my children’s account that I principally rejoice.”

She then desired her children to be brought to her, whom she immediately caught in her arms; and having profusely cried over them, soon regained her usual temper and complexion.

Miss Harris, having received a letter from Amelia, informing her of the discovery and the danger in which she stood, immediately set out for France, carrying with her all her money, most of her clothes, and some few jewels.

About a week afterwards, Booth and Amelia, with their children, and Atkinson and his wife, all set forward together for Amelia’s house, where they arrived amidst the acclamations of all the neighbours, and every public demonstration of joy.

Miss Harris lived for three years with a broken heart at Boulogne, where she received annually L50 from her sister; and then died in a most miserable manner.

Dr. Harrison is grown old in years and in honour, beloved and respected by all his parishioners and neighbours.

As to Booth and Amelia, fortune seems to have made them large amends for the tricks she played them in their youth.  They have continued to enjoy an uninterrupted course of health and happiness.  In about six weeks after Booth’s first coming into the country, he went to London and paid all his debts, after which, and a stay of two days only, he returned into the country, and has never since been thirty miles from home.

Amelia is still the finest woman in England of her age; Booth himself often avers she is as handsome as ever.  Nothing can equal the serenity of their lives.

Amelia declared the other day that she did not remember to have seen her husband out of humour these ten years!

* * * * *

Jonathan Wild

“Jonathan Wild,” published in 1743, is in many respects Fielding’s most powerful piece of satire, surpassed only, perhaps, by Thackeray’s “Barry Lyndon.”  It can hardly be called a novel, and still less a serious biography, though it is founded on the real history of a notorious highway robber and thief.  The author disclaimed in his preface any attempt on his part at authentic history or faithful portraiture.  “Roguery, and not a rogue is my subject,” he wrote; adding, that the ideas of goodness and greatness are too often confounded together.  “A man may be great without being good, or good without being great.”  The story of “Jonathan Wild” is really a bitter, satirical attack on what