“If you please, sir,” said he, “Mrs. Fallover wants you immediately; she’s taken very bad.”

“I can’t help it.”

“Indeed, but you must help it, doctor,” said Mrs. St. Felix; “the poor woman is, as you know, in her first confinement, and you must not neglect her, so let’s say good-by at once, and a happy return.  I asked Tom to come down that I might call upon his sister and one or two other people before I go; so you see, doctor, as you can’t go with me, you may just as well go and attend to the poor woman; so good-by, Dr. Tadpole, I will write to you as soon as I know what I’m to do.”

The doctor took her hand, and after a pause said, “Mrs. St. Felix, Eheu, me infelix!” and hastened out of the shop.

“Poor fellow!” said she, “he’ll miss me, and that’s the truth.  Good-by, Jane; mind you look after everything till I come back, and take care of the dog and cat.  Come, Tom, we’ll go now.”

I threw her trunk on my shoulders, and followed her till we came to the post-house.  The chaise was ordered out, and we set off.

“Tom,” said Lady O’Connor, as I again call her, now that she is clear of Greenwich, “there is one portion of my history which you do not know—­a very trifling part indeed.  When I saw in the newspapers that my husband had, as I supposed, been executed, I am ashamed to say that I first thought of suicide; but my better feelings prevailed, and I then resolved to change my name and to let people suppose that I was dead.  It was for that reason that I left my bonnet by the river-side and all my apparel in the house, only taking away a few trinkets and valuables, to dispose of for my future subsistence.  I obtained a passage in a transport bound to Woolwich, on the plea of my husband having arrived from abroad; and, by mere accident, I found the goodwill of the tobacconist’s shop to be sold.  It suited me—­and there is the whole of my history which you do not know.

“And now, as to Virginia, I intend to have her with me very soon.  Your mother is anxious that she should get into a high family, trusting that her beauty will captivate some of the members—­a bad kind of speculation.  I will advertise for a companion, and so arrange that your mother shall not see me; and when your sister does come to me, it shall not be as a companion, but as a child of my own.  I owe you much, Tom—­indeed, almost everything; and it is the only way in which I can repay you.  I have already spoken to Sir James on the subject.  He is equally ready to pay the debt of gratitude, and therefore in future Virginia is our adopted child.”

“You are more than repaying me, Lady O’Connor,” replied I, “and you are obliging me in the quarter where I feel the obligation the greatest.”

“That I believe, Tom; so now say no more about it.”