After a few judicious animadversions on the impertinence of John Waft, for Mr. Herbert was sometimes plagued with him as well as I was, he resumed:—

“In consequence of the death of my father, which happened in the course of the sixth year after the event just described, I had no inducement to revisit Stoke Melcomb: but the unfortunate situation of Sophia Devereux still saddened my thoughts, and the recollections of our youthful intercourse was sweet in my memory, like the withered rose-leaves in the jar.

“One day a smart youth brought me a letter; it was from Mrs. Cockspur, and the bearer was Oliver, her eldest son. She informed me, that he had been sent to London to acquire some practical knowledge of mechanics, and she begged that I would allow him to consider me as a friend.

“This incident gave me great pleasure—but it told me that the excommunication still continued, otherwise the grandson of Mr. Devereux would not have been in need of my friendship. The following year Bradshaw, the second son, also came to London; but he brought me no letter. I had in the mean time shown a few little civilities to Oliver, and it was not doubted I would be as attentive to him—so the boy himself told me—and subjoined with a degree of affecting sensibility, ‘For we consider you as our only friend.’

“When they had been in London two years, they were recalled by their father to accompany him in a tour to the principal manufacturing towns, and to inspect some of the canals. His health had been declining, and he was advised to travel. In fact, the chagrin in which he had so long lived was beginning to affect his constitution; but his unrelaxing spirit would make no concession to his neighbours, even while he was consuming with the desire to be re-admitted into their society.

“From that period I have not seen the two lads, who by this time must be men—Oliver cannot be less than twenty-four.