“Speak,” said he, addressing himself to his daughter; “speak; I will hear thee.”

The desperation that supported her was lost; she fell to the ground, and bathed his feet with her tears.

Harley undertook her cause:  he related the treacheries to which she had fallen a sacrifice, and again solicited the forgiveness of her father.  He looked on her for some time in silence; the pride of a soldier’s honour checked for a while the yearnings of his heart; but nature at last prevailed, he fell on her neck and mingled his tears with hers.

Harley, who discovered from the dress of the stranger that he was just arrived from a journey, begged that they would both remove to his lodgings, till he could procure others for them.  Atkins looked at him with some marks of surprise.  His daughter now first recovered the power of speech.

“Wretch as I am,” said she, “yet there is some gratitude due to the preserver of your child.  See him now before you.  To him I owe my life, or at least the comfort of imploring your forgiveness before I die.”

“Pardon me, young gentleman,” said Atkins, “I fear my passion wronged you.”

“Never, never, sir,” said Harley “if it had, your reconciliation to your daughter were an atonement a thousand fold.”  He then repeated his request that he might be allowed to conduct them to his lodgings, to which Mr. Atkins at last consented.  He took his daughter’s arm.

“Come, my Emily,” said he, “we can never, never recover that happiness we have lost! but time may teach us to remember our misfortunes with patience.”

When they arrived at the house where Harley lodged, he was informed that the first floor was then vacant, and that the gentleman and his daughter might be accommodated there.  While he was upon his enquiry, Miss Atkins informed her father more particularly what she owed to his benevolence.  When he turned into the room where they were Atkins ran and embraced him;—­begged him again to forgive the offence he had given him, and made the warmest protestations of gratitude for his favours.  We would attempt to describe the joy which Harley felt on this occasion, did it not occur to us that one half of the world could not understand it though we did, and the other half will, by this time, have understood it without any description at all.

Miss Atkins now retired to her chamber, to take some rest from the violence of the emotions she had suffered.  When she was gone, her father, addressing himself to Harley, said, “You have a right, sir, to be informed of the present situation of one who owes so much to your compassion for his misfortunes.  My daughter I find has informed you what that was at the fatal juncture when they began.  Her distresses you have heard, you have pitied as they deserved; with mine, perhaps, I cannot so easily make you acquainted.  You have a feeling heart, Mr. Harley; I bless it that it has saved my child; but you never were a father,