 took every proper care of his child's education.
THAT as she grew up extremely handsome, madame de St. Far determined to bring her to Paris, in hopes of making her fortune; and for

that purpose assumed the name she now used' and endeavoured to appear like a person of distinction. That the marchioness was perfectly acquainted with their circumstances, and readily entered into the scheme; but in order to carry it on, she was obliged to run considerably in debt, though they were not above six months in Paris, before the marchioness had the good fortune to charm both you and the marquis de St. Aumont.
SHE added, that the only reason her daughter ever gave for preferring the marquis to you, was the probability of becoming her own mistress by his death, for that she knew her own disposition so perfectly, that she was certain she could not confine her affections to any one person long.
O Woodville! what an happy escape have you had from this vile woman! but to make an end of this tedious tale. She told me, that monsieur de Verville died without a will, soon after the marchioness's marriage; and that she was by that means deprived even of the small income which he had allowed her. She implored me to assist her in getting into some convent, where she might pass the remainder of her days without hearing of her undutiful and unnatural daughter. I have desired her to fix upon a proper place for her retirement, and I will readily pay the sum necessary to her admission. I presented her with my purse, and desired to hear from her as soon as possible.
THIS affair, and lady Woodville's commands to find out Sir James Miller will detain me a few days longer in Paris. How earnestly do I long to quit it! yet are not all places alike to the unhappy? no, there is one asylum, and but one, for wretchedness like mine—the peaceful grave!

FORGIVE me, Woodville, for talking in this melancholy strain, to my now happy friend—may you be long so, is the warmest wish of

P.S. I know not whether I have told you that I have fought lady Ransford in vain, ever since my return to Paris. She quitted her hotel in a few days after Barnard's death, and has left no trace behind her.



YOUR remark, that neither happiness nor pleasure comes to us unmixed, is but too aptly verified in me; for the real and tender concern which your situation gives me, is a strong alloy to that tranquil happiness I should at
