infinitely expressive, and it was followed by a starting tear.
They now proceeded to the next stage on their way homeward, Sindall declaring, that, after what had happened, he would, on no account, leave Miss Annesly, till he had delivered her safe into the hands of her father. She heard this speech with a sigh so deep, that if Ryland had possessed much penetration, he would have made conjectures of something uncommon on her mind; but he was guiltless of imputing to others, what his honesty never experienced in himself. Sir Thomas observed it better, and gently chid •t by squeezing her hand in his.
At the inn where they first stopt, they met with a gentleman who made the addition of a fourth person to their party, being an officer who was going down to the same part of the country on recruiting orders, and happened to be a particular acquaintance of sir Thomas Sindall: his name was Camplin.
He afforded to their society an ingredient of which at present it seemed to stand pretty much in need; to wit, a proper share of mirth and humour, for which nature seemed, by a profusion of animal spirits, to have very well fitted him. She had not perhaps bestowed on him much sterling wit; but she had given him abundance of that counterfeit assurance, which frequently passes more current than the real. In this company, to which chance had associated him, he had an additional advantage from the presence of Ryland, whom he very soon discovered to be of that order of men called Buts, those easy cushions (to borrow a metaphor of Otway's) on whom the wits of the world repose and fatten.
Besides all this, he had a fund of conversation arising from the adventures of a life which, according to his own account, he had

passed equally in the perils of war and the luxuries of peace; his memoirs affording repeated instances of his valour in dangers of the field, his address in the society of the great, and his gallantry in connexions with the fair.
But lest the reader should imagine, that the real portraiture of this gentleman was to be found in those lineaments which he drew of himself, I will take the liberty candidly, though briefly, to communicate some particulars relating to his quality, his situation, and his character.
He was the son of a man who called himself an attorney, in a village adjoining to sir Thomas Sindall's estate. His father, sir William, with whom I made my readers a little acquainted in the beginning of my story, had found this same