persuasion that Lucy would write to me, and that we should console each other, at least, by a knowledge of our mutual situation and our mutual constancy.  In this persuasion, I insisted on remaining six weeks longer with S——­, and gained my point; and that any letter Lucy might write, might not be exposed to any officious intervention from S——­, or my guardian’s satellites, I walked every day to meet the postman who was accustomed to bring our letters.  None came from Lucy.  Afterwards, I learned that D——­, whom my guardian had wisely bought, as well as intimidated, had intercepted three letters which she had addressed to me, in her unsuspecting confidence—­and that she only ceased to write when she ceased to believe in me.

“I went to reside with my guardian.  A man of a hospitable and liberal turn, his house was always full of guests, who were culled from the most agreeable circles in London.  We lived in a perpetual round of amusement; and my uncle, who thought I should be rich enough to afford to be ignorant, was more anxious that I should divert my mind, than instruct it.  Well, this year passed slowly and sadly away, despite of the gaiety around me; and, at the end of that time, I left my uncle to go to the university; but I first lingered in London to make inquiries after D——.  I could learn no certain tidings of him, but heard that the most probable place to find him was a certain gaming-house in K——­ Street.  Thither I repaired forthwith.  It was a haunt of no delicate and luxurious order of vice; the chain attached to the threshold indicated suspicion of the spies of justice; and a grim and sullen face peered jealously upon me before I was suffered to ascend the filthy and noisome staircase.  But my search was destined to a brief end.  At the head of the Rouge et Noir table, facing my eyes the moment I entered the evil chamber, was the marked and working countenance of D——.

“He did not look up—­no, not once, all the time he played; he won largely—­rose with a flushed face and trembling hand—­descended the stairs—­stopped in a room below, where a table was spread with meats and wine—­took a large tumbler of Madeira, and left the house.  I had waited patiently—­I had followed him with a noiseless step—­I now drew my breath hard, clenched my hands, as if to nerve myself for a contest—­and as he paused a moment under one of the lamps, seemingly in doubt whither to go—­I laid my hand on his shoulder, and uttered his name.  His eyes wandered with a leaden and dull gaze over my face before he remembered me. Then he recovered his usual bland smile and soft tone.  He grasped my unwilling hand, and inquired with the tenderness of a parent after my health.  I did not heed his words.  ‘Your daughter,’ said I, convulsively.

“‘Ah! you were old friends,’ quoth he, smiling; ’you have recovered that folly, I hope.  Poor thing! she will be happy to see an old friend.  You know of course—­

“‘What?’ for he hesitated.