It was I, said Mr. Morgan, rubbing his sides, and expressing the agitation of joy by dumb shew;—­it was I, beating one of my damn’d dogs for running up stairs.

If that is all, said Mr. Powis,—­let us return to my mother and wife, who are much hurried.—­Away we went together, and the affair of the dog pass’d very well on the Ladies.

I sat musing for some moments how to introduce the event my heart labour’d to give up.—­Every sigh that escap’d,—­every sorrowful look that was interchang’d, I now plac’d to my own account, because in my power to reverse the scene.

Addressing myself to Mr. Powis, I ask’d if he knew Lord Darcey’s servant was below.—­He shook his head;—­No, he answer’d.—­Then it is all over, Risby, I suppose in a low voice?—­I hardly wish for his own sake he may recover:—­for ours, it would be selfish.

He was not worse, I reply’d:—­there was hope,—­great hope he would do well.

Blessings attend him! cried Mrs. Powis.—­tears starting afresh to her swoln eyes;—­then you really think, Mr. Risby, he may recover?

If he does, Madam, return’d! he is flatter’d into life.—­Flatter’d! said Mr. Powis eagerly;—­how flatter’d?

Why, continued I, he has been told some persons are sav’d from the wreck.

Up they all started, surrounding me on every side:—­there seem’d but one voice, yet each ask’d if I credited the report.

I said I did.—­

Down they dropp’d on their knees, praying with uplifted hands their dear,—­dear child may be of the number.—­Though nothing could equal the solemnity of this scene, I could scarce command my countenance, when I saw Mr. Morgan standing in the midst of the circle, his hat held up before his face, and a cane under his arm.

As they rose from their knees,—­I gave them all the consolation I thought at that moment they were capable of sustaining;—­and assur’d them no vigilance would be wanting to come at particulars.—­I was ask’d, if there was any letter from Mr. Molesworth?—­When answer’d in the affirmative,—­the next question was, if it related to what I had just disclos’d?—­I equivocated in my reply, and withdrew to write the few unconnected lines sent by John.

After he was dispatch’d, I return’d immediately to the hopeing,—­fearing family.—­Mr. Watson was sitting amidst them:—­he seem’d like a Being of purity presiding over hearts going to be rewarded for resignation to the Divine will.

He heard me as I enter’d:  he rose from his seat as I came near him, and pressing one of my hands between both his, whisper’d, I have seen Mr. Morgan.—­Then raising his voice, You are the messenger of joy, Mr. Risby;—­complete the happiness you have begun:—­all present, pointing round, are prepar’d to receive it.

Here drops my pen.—­I must not attempt this scene:—­a Shakespeare would have wrote it in tears.

How infinite,—­how dazzling the beauty of holiness!—­Affliction seems to have threaten’d this amiable family, only to encrease their love,—­their reverence,—­their admiration of Divine Omnipotence.—­Blessings may appear, as a certain great man remarks, under the shape of pain, losses, and disappointments;—­but let us have patience, and we shall see them in their own proper figures.