subdue your passion; for it cannot lead to good.  Be not dazzled by a brilliant exterior, which often conceals a treacherous heart; but try to fix your affections on some person of little pretension, but of solid worth.  Never, I grieve to say, was there a season when such universal profligacy prevailed as at present.  Never was it so necessary for a young maiden, possessed of beauty like yours, to act with discretion.  Never was a court so licentious as that of our sovereign, Charles the Second, whose corrupt example is imitated by every one around him, while its baneful influence extends to all classes.  Were I to echo the language of the preachers, I should say it was owing to the wickedness and immorality of the times that this dreadful judgment of the plague has been inflicted upon us; but I merely bring it forward as an argument to prove to you, Amabel, that if you would escape the moral contagion by which you are threatened, you must put the strictest guard upon your conduct.”

Amabel faintly murmured her thanks.

“You speak as my husband himself would have spoken,” said Mrs. Bloundel.  “Ah! we little thought, when we prayed that the pestilence might be averted from us, that a worse calamity was behind, and that one of the most profligate of the courtiers you have mentioned would find his way to our house.”

“One of the most profligate of them?” cried Hodges.  “Who, in Heaven’s name?”

“He calls himself Maurice Wyvil,” replied Mrs. Bloundel.

“I never heard of such a person,” rejoined the doctor.  “It must be an assumed name.  Have you no letter or token that might lead to his discovery?” he added, turning to Amabel.

“I have his portrait,” she replied, drawing a small miniature from her bosom.

“I am glad I have seen this,” said the doctor, slightly starting as he cast his eyes upon it.  “I hope it is not too late to save you, Amabel,” he added, in a severe tone.  “I hope you are free from contamination?”

“As I live, I am,” she replied.  “But you recognise the likeness?”

“I do,” returned Hodges.  “It is the portrait of one whose vices and depravity are the town’s cry, and whose name coupled with that of a woman, is sufficient to sully her reputation.”

“It is the Earl of Rochester,” said Mrs. Bloundel.

“You have guessed aright,” replied the doctor; “it is.”

Uttering an exclamation of surprise and terror, Amabel fell back in her chair.

“I thought it must be that wicked nobleman,” cried Mrs. Bloundel.  “Would you believe it, doctor, that he forced himself into the house—­nay, into this room—­last night, and would have carried off my daughter, in spite of her resistance, if I had not prevented him.”

“I can believe anything of him,” replied Hodges.  “But your husband, of course, knows nothing of the matter?”

“Not as yet,” replied Mrs. Bloundel; “but I authorize you to tell him all.”