Upon my word I beg pardon, my dear; but this watch of mine is really a very sad deceiver.'

Why wear it, then? Why not have one that will keep correct

time ?"

"Well, well, don't be angry, my love. I am sorry it happened. It shall not occur again.'

This dialogue, short as it was, discovered to Sir William the true state of the case. He saw Stanley's influence at a glance, and at the moment conceived a project for enriching himself. This project must, however, be left for the present. It was not then even in conception matured; and, as there was plenty of time for its execution, he troubled himself no more about it then, but continued to converse on ephemeral topics with Amelia, (who could not help fancying that when she entered he pressed her hand with rather remarkable warmth,) until dinner was announced.

The dinner passed off very well. It was very recherché, and very well managed. Sir William was Sir Williamed to his heart's content, and nothing but smiles and good humour prevailed.

A variety of interesting subjects were touched upon slightly; but at length one arose which had reference to the moral tendency of exposing vice. The widow expressed a decided opinion, that virtue alone must be portrayed to induce a high appreciation of virtue; and Sir William, as a matter of courtesy, agreed with her, and contended, that if the vicious were unknown, their example could not be followed, which was certainly much to the point, clear, and very conclusive. Stanley, however, was not content with this, and hence inquired of Sir William if he objected to the system of guarding the virtuous against the practices of the vicious.

'Decidedly not,' returned Sir William. 'I would guard them at every point, by placing before their eyes constantly and exclusively the beautiful characteristics of virtue.'

'Precisely,' observed the widow. Of all guards, virtue is the strongest.'

But by simply doing that,' said Stanley, without noticing the widow's remarkable observation. 'I apprehend you would leave them unguarded. The inexperienced must be taught what to abhor, as well as what to admire; what to shun, as well as what to embrace. And the beauty of virtue is never so conspicuous as when contrasted with the deformity of vice.'

Teach men to be virtuous,' rejoined Sir William, and they require to know nothing of vice.'

But how are they to avoid the snares laid for them by the vicious?'

Experience will soon enable them to do that.'

'But whose experience? Their own, or the experience of others? We cannot be secure in our own experience, and hence to the inexperienced an exposition of vice is a blessing. Our own experience cannot guide us we must not be left to it alone. If, for example, a young and lovely creature should fall, ought we not to describe the villainous means by which her fall was accomplished, that others may avoid them? "No!" exclaims pseudo-morality. That young fallen creature was left to her own experience. Had she been permitted to profit by the experience of others, she might still have been virtuous,-still pure, still the pride of her home,-a blessing to her family,-the

solace of those whose hearts she may have broken; but having merely her own experience to guide her, she was ensnared, and her experience must, forsooth, not be imparted to others. No; they, in turn, must learn by their own experience too! Society would be wrecked if the virtuous and the honourable were not constantly warned, by the experience of others, against those by whom vice and dishonour are practised. How are we to shun that of which we are unconscious? How are we to frustrate the designs of the villain, if we are kept in utter ignorance of those designs? How are the young, however exemplary and amiable, to avoid the specious deeply-laid schemes of the seducer, if the arts of seduction are kept out of view? They must be warned; and as they can be effectually warned only by the experience of others, the knowledge of that experience should not be withheld. It is the duty of all, whether in private conversation, in moral disquisitions, or in histories which amuse while they instruct, to portray the deformities of vice with the view of rendering more apparent the beauties of virtue.'

It certainly did not require all this to convince Sir William Wormwell, that if vice were not exposed, our social system would soon be destroyed; but having taken the opposite side, to please the widow, he felt bound to fight her battle until she was perfectly satisfied, when-perceiving his occupation as her champion gone-he observed, with a smile, that he thought Stanley ought to have been in the Church. This acute observation was very much approved by the widow, who began to think so too; while Amelia was delighted with her Stanley, which is not very marvellous, considering how easily affectionate and intelligent wives are by such means charmed by their husbands. All were therefore well content; and when Sir William had covered his retreat by observing, that the grand point was to describe the career of the vicious, so that none might either sympathise with them, or wish to follow their example, the conversation turned upon the turf.

'Of course you go to Epsom?' said Sir William.

'I scarcely know,' replied Stanley. I have not even given it a thought.'

'Then you have no favourite horse in the Derby?'

'I don't even know the name of any one that has been entered. In fact, my knowledge of the turf is exceedingly limited.'

'In that case, I should strongly advise you to bet only with friends.'

'Would it not be as well,' suggested Amelia, ' to abstain from betting altogether?'

'Decidedly,' replied Sir William. But men, from the highest to the lowest, who take the slightest interest in a race, will bet. The impulse is irresistible. If even they have nothing at stake, they cannot avoid wishing that a certain horse may win, and that is sufficient to prompt them to back that wish, if they happen to have any one to bet with. It is, however, folly for the inexperienced to bet with any but friends.'

'But when are the races?' inquired the widow. 'Next Wednesday is the grand day.'

'Oh, I should like to go dearly! I never was at a race in my life. I am sure I should enjoy it above all things. Shouldn't you, my love?'

'I should indeed,' returned Amelia. 'Papa took me down last

year, and I was so much delighted! You can scarcely imagine what a lovely scene it is.'

'Well, suppose, then, Stanley were to take us?' said the widow, who, after smiling sweetly at Sir William, added, 'you, I presume, are engaged?'

'No; I have no particular engagement.'

'Oh, it would be so delightful if you would go with us!'

'I assure you that nothing would give me greater pleasure. What say you? he added, addressing Stanley.

Oh! I am quite agreeable.'

'There's a good creature!' cried Amelia. We will not be the slightest trouble to you. You can have your own horses down there, as papa and Albert had, and ride about as you please.'

'Exactly,' said the widow. You can send them forward, and we can all go down together in my carriage. We shall be so comfortable and so happy!'

It was accordingly thus arranged, and the remainder of the evening was spent most agreeably; but the greatest amount of delight was experienced by the widow, who then felt as certain of being Lady Wormwell as if a formal declaration had already been made. This Sir William, of course, perceived, and took especial care to give strength and depth to that feeling, conceiving it to be essential to the due execution of that scheme of which the outline may as well be explained. He saw that Stanley was on the high-road to ruin; that he derived all the means he had of travelling that road from the widow; and that her wealth would be thereby most sensibly diminished, if, indeed, it were not wholly absorbed. He there. fore put it to himself whether he ought to suffer so golden an opportunity to slip. In a pecuniary sense he was not in a good position; but he felt that he might retrieve himself by a little ingenuity, and the only question was--Could he do it in the way proposed with honour ! It was some time before he could answer this question with any degree of satisfaction to himself; but he did so eventually thus:

'We are the creatures of circumstances: circumstances govern all our actions. Is not therefore non-resistance venial when circumstances surround us in the shape of temptations to acts which in a strict sense partake of the character of dishonour? Besides, the means I propose to employ are means which the world calls "honourable," and none can be disgraced by the employment of those means in the eye of the world. Why, then, should not I, by those "honourable" means enrich myself? If this fortune is to be lost, why should not I win it? I will: and while doing so defy the world to say that I violated in any single instance its own code of honour.' By this ingenious species of ratiocination he tranquillised his conscience, and having laid the basis of success by appearing as amiable as possible in the eyes of the widow, who was in raptures, he left for the night.

CHAPTER XVII.

Bob makes a discovery which is calculated to be highly advantageous.

As it has been already placed on record that, in consequence of Stanley's departure from the park before the friends of the lady whom he had rescued had time to express their gratitude, Bob felt that he had been to a sensible extent victimized, it may now without any impropriety be stated that, as he could not suppress this purely natural feeling he had been ever since looking out for the old groom with unparalleled sharpness and zeal. His expectation of meeting with that ancient individual had been particularly lively and strong; his object being to impart to the friends of that lady through him the fact that Stanley was the person by whom the gallant action was performed; for, being a pure and faithful servant, he held it to be a pity that they should remain in utter ignorance of him who was justly and so eminently entitled to their thanks.

He had, however, been signally unsuccessful in his search. He had described with artistical fervour the chief characteristics of the animated piece of antiquity in question to every gentleman with whom. he had the honour of being acquainted; but, as they were unable to give him any specific clue to the discovery of the ancient, he felt quite at a loss; for he did not conceive it to be strictly correct to advertise him in the Hue and Cry, or, indeed, in any of the public papers, although he would with much willingness have offered a reward of five shillings for his apprehension, to be paid on conviction of his being the same man.

Notwithstanding he had been grievously disappointed in spirit in divers instances in which he had made sure of having the honour to run him down, Bob nobly scorned to give the thing up: he felt perfectly certain that he should have the pleasure of meeting the old gentleman at some period somewhere; and to show the rather extraordinary correctness of this conjecture, it will be necessary to explain that immediately after Stanley and Amelia had started to meet Sir William at the widow's, he miraculously beheld, as he was walk- : ing down Regent Street to have an hour's private conversation with a friend, the identical individual on horseback, behind a lady who ally looked very much indeed like the one who had been so providentially preserved.

re.

In an instant Bob knew him. He could not be mistaken. He could have sworn conscientiously to his being the same man. But then, what was he to do? They were trotting rather briskly; and the proximity of the groom to his mistress was so remarkable that he really could not speak to him then with any degree of convenience. He could therefore pursue but one course, and that course he did pursue. He started off with the inflexible determination not to lose sight of them, seeing that he felt at least two sovereigns all but in his pocket. He had not the smallest doubt that they resided in May Fair, or its immediate vicinity; and, as they turned up Piccadilly, he darted after them with joy, although he found it excessively hot. They passed Bond-Street and Sackville Street,-which, of course, was just what he expected;

but then they dashed up to the Park,-which did by no means meet his views; and he could not avoid expressing privately to himself an innocent wish that it had been otherwise. There was, however, no help for it, although it was very sultry. He still kept on, resolved not to be beaten ; but it cannot be denied that he found the perspira. tion becoming unpleasantly profuse. It is, however, the spirit which sustains a man under circumstances of an adverse character: it is that which enables him to overcome difficulties, under which he would else of necessity sink. Bob highly appreciated this profound philosophical fact; and hence would not permit his manly spirit to flag. Still he thought it very hard, for he felt very warm and uncomfortable as the conviction flashed vividly across his brain, that, instead of the lady being on her way home, as he had fondly conceived, she had in reality but just come out; and, when he took into calm consideration the character of ladies in the aggregate, he thought it extremely probable that Heaven only knew when she meant to return. He, notwithstanding all this, disdained to lose sight of her, but still kept on running; and, as he ran, an infinite variety of ideas kept darting into his head, and darting out again. There was, however, one which made a short stay, and this was, that if he went back to the gate he should be just as secure as if he ran round the ring. But then, he asked himself how he could, in the nature of things, tell that she would not go out at one of the other gates? This was a question to which he could give no satisfactory answer; and, as at the moment the ghosts of two sovereigns, as if to warn him, flitted grimly before his imagination, he felt strongly that it would not do at all to leave anything to chance, although he had a horrid notion that he should not be able to keep the game alive much longer, seeing that he actually did feel as nearly as possible exhausted.

Having passed Cumberland Gate, the lady, with great consideration, walked her horse, which Bob held to be a blessing, and was very thankful for it. It enabled him to recover his breath a little; when, perceiving that all was quite safe, he took a short cut back, still keeping his eyes fixed with surpassing firmness upon his object, and being prepared to dart after her if she offered to turn; but, happily for him, no such offer was made. Gracefully and deliberately she came along the drive, and at length passed into Piccadilly.

At this point Bob tried to attract the attention of the ancient groom, who happened to be a greater distance behind his mistress than usual; but that gentleman, being absorbed in his own private reflections, fail. ed to notice him; a circumstance which Bob did not care much about; for, in the first place, he was not in a fit state to speak to any one having the slightest pretensions to respectability; in the second, he could not have held any lengthened conversation with him then; and in the third, he imagined that there could not be two strictly rational opinions about his being able now to discover their residence with ease. Under these peculiar circumstances, therefore, he continued to follow them; and, albeit from Park Lane to Burlington Arcade the Lady caused him to run with great velocity, he was firmly determined that it never should be said after all that he gave in. From Burling. ton Arcade to the Circus they proceeded very coolly; but they dashed off again up Regent Street, where several individuals of Bob's ac quaintance turned to marvel what on earth it could be which caused him to run at such an ungentlemanly rate. He stopped not, how