 monk came to my apartments, and desired to speak with me. He told me there was a lady in the Carmelites convent, who begged to see me upon an affair of the utmost importance to one of my friends. I enquired very particularly who the lady was: he said he knew nothing more of her than that she was an Englishwoman, and was called Jefferson.

He added, that at her request he had been often to seek for me, while I was absent from Paris; that he had given up all hopes of meeting me; but rejoiced at his being more fortunate than he expected, and intreated me to obey the lady's summons.
THIS affair would have been matter of speculation to me, if my mind had been sufficiently at ease, to think about it; but without reflecting at all upon the subject, I entered the Carmelite's convent at ten o'clock the next morning and enquired for Mrs. Jefferson.—I did not wait long in the parlour, when a lady dressed in deep mourning approached the grate. I fixed my eyes intently upon her, and knew her to be lady Ransford.—A crimson glow overspread her cheek when she saluted me, and at that moment she appeared a most interesting object.
TO save her the trouble of apologizing for sending for me, I told her how much I had been disappointed at not being able to discover her retreat at my return to Paris, and I begged to know if I could be any way serviceable to her; and, at the same time intreated she would inform me, of every thing she knew, in relation to the unhappy affair, between captain Barnard and my friend.
HER tears flowed fast and silent, while I spoke—When she perceived that I waited for her reply, she took out her pocket book, and presenting it to me, said, your lordship will there find two letters, which will render any conversation with me upon this painful subject, needless.—I commit them to your care, in order that every possible use may be made of them, for Mr. Ransford's advantage. I bear no enmity to his father, nor do I wish to make him an exile from that country to which I never more will return.

I ASKED her with as much delicacy as I possibly could, what scene of life she intended to pursue, and again repeated the offer of my service to her. She thanked me, and said that captain Barnard's death had made her think differently, from what she had ever done before; that she was too conscious of the
