I was attempting some awkward acknowledgment, when Mr. Watson enter’d, led by Mr. Morgan.—­I saw he had executed the task, which made me shudder.—­Never did the likeness of a being celestial shine more than in the former!  He mov’d gently forward,—­plac’d himself next Lady Powis;—­pale,—­trembling,—­sinking.—­Mr. Morgan retir’d to the window.—­

Now,—­now,—­the dreadful discovery was at a crisis.—­Mr. Watson sigh’d.—­Lady Powis eyed him with attention; then starting up, cried, Bless me!  I hear wheels:  suppose, Mr. Watson, it should be Fanny!—­and after looking into the lawn resum’d her chair.

Pardon me, Lady Powis said.  Mr. Watson in a low-voice; why this impatience?—­Ah Madam!  I could rather wish you to check than encourage it.

Hold, hold, my worthy friend, return’d Sir James; do you forget four hours since how you stood listening at a gate by the road-side, saying, you could hear, tho’ not see?

We must vary our hopes and inclinations, reply’d Mr. Watson.—­Divine Providence—­there stopp’d;—­not another word.—­He stopp’d;—­he groan’d;—­and was silent.—­Great God! cried Mr. Powis, is my child ill?—­Is my child dead? frantickly echoed Mrs. Powis—­Heaven forbid! exclaim’d Sir James and his Lady, arising.—­Tell us, Mr. Watson;—­tell us, Mr. Ruby.

When you are compos’d,—­return’d the former—­Then, our child is dead,—­really dead! shriek’d the parents.—­No, no, cried Lady Powis, clasping her son and daughter in her arms,—­she is, not dead; I am sure she is not dead.

Mr. Watson, after many efforts to speak, said in a faultering voice,—­Consider we are christians:—­let that bless’d name fortify our souls.

Mrs. Powis fell on her knees before him,—­heart-rending sight!—­her cap torn off,—­her hair dishevell’d,—­her eyes fix’d;—­not a tear,—­not a single tear to relieve the bitter anguish of her soul.

Sir James had left the room;—­Lady Powis was sunk almost senseless on the sopha;—­Mr. Powis kneeling by his wife, clasping her to his bosom;—­Mr. Morgan in a corner roaring out his affliction;—­Mr. Watson with the voice of an angel speaking consolation.—­I say nothing of my own feelings.—­God, how great!—­how inexpressible! when Mrs. Powis, still on her knees, turn’d to me with uplifted hands,—­Oh Mr. Risby! cried she,—­can you,—­can you speak comfort to the miserable?—­Then again addressing Mr. Watson,—­Dear, saint, only say she lives:—­I ask no more; only say she lives.—­My best love!—­my life!—­my Fanny! said Mr. Powis, lifting her to the sopha;—­live,—­live,—­for my sake.—­Oh!—­Risby, are you the messenger?—­his head fell on my shoulder, and he sobb’d aloud.

Lady Powis beckon’d him towards her, and, looking at Mrs. Powis with an expressive glance of tenderness,—­said Compose yourself, my son;—­what will become of you, if—­He took the meaning of her words, and wrapping his arms about his wife, seem’d for a moment to forget his own sorrow in endeavours to.