to her. Aunt Lambert
thought she would have swooned; one of Mrs. Goodison's girls had a
bottle of salts, and ran up with it from the workroom. "Going away?
Going away in a frigate, Aunt Lambert? Going to tear her away from me?
Great God! Aunt Lambert, I shall die!" She was better when mamma came
up from the workroom with the young lady's bottle of salts. You see the
women used to meet me: knowing dear Theo's delicate state, how could
they refrain from compassionating her! But the General was so busy
with his levees and his waiting on Ministers, and his outfit, and the
settlement of his affairs at home, that they never happened to tell him
about our little walks and meetings; and even when orders for the outfit
of the ladies were given, Mrs. Goodison, who had known and worked
for Miss Molly Benson as a schoolgirl (she remembered Miss Esmond of
Virginia perfectly, the worthy lady told me, and a dress she made for
the young lady to be presented at her Majesty's Ball)--"even when the
outfit was ordered for the three ladies," says Mrs. Goodison, demurely,
"why, I thought I could do no harm in completing the order."

Now I need not say in what perturbation of mind Mr. Warrington went home
in the evening to his lodgings, after the discussion with the ladies of
the above news. No, or at least a very few, more walks; no more rides to
dear, dear Hampstead or beloved Islington; no more fetching and carrying
of letters for Gumbo and Molly! The former blubbered so, that Mr.
Warrington was quite touched by his fidelity, and gave him a crown-piece
to go to supper with the poor girl, who turned out to be his sweetheart.
What, you too unhappy, Gumbo, and torn from the maid you love? I was
ready to mingle with him tear for tear.

What a solemn conference I had with Sampson that evening! He knew my
affairs, my expectations, my mother's anger. Psha! that was far off, and
he knew some excellent liberal people (of the order of Melchizedek)
who would discount the other. The General would not give his consent?
Sampson shrugged his broad shoulders and swore a great roaring oath. My
mother would not relent? What then? A man was a man, and to make his
own way in the world? he supposed. He is only a churl who won't play for
such a stake as that, and lose or win, by George! shouts the chaplain,
over a bottle of Burgundy at the Bedford Head, where he dined. I need
not put down our conversation. We were two of us, and I think there was
only one mind