the parties were
made up, Madame de Bernstein became more and more restless, and finally
retreated with three friends to her own corner, where a table specially
reserved for her was occupied by her major-domo. And here the old lady
sate down resolutely, never changing her place or quitting her game till
cock-crow. The charge of receiving the company devolved now upon my Lady
Maria, who did not care for cards, but dutifully did the honours of the
house to her aunt's guests, and often rustled by the table where her
young cousin was engaged with his three friends.

"Come and cut the cards for us," said my Lord March to her ladyship as
she passed on one of her wistful visits. "Cut the cards and bring us
luck, Lady Maria! We have had none to-night, and Mr. Warrington is
winning everything."

"I hope you are not playing high, Harry?" said the lady, timidly.

"Oh no, only sixpences," cried my lord, dealing.

"Only sixpences," echoed Mr. Morris, who was Lord March's partner. But
Mr. Morris must have been very keenly alive to the value of sixpence, if
the loss of a few such coins could make his round face look so dismal.
My Lord Chesterfield sate opposite Mr. Warrington, sorting his cards. No
one could say, by inspecting that calm physiognomy, whether good or ill
fortune was attending his lordship.

Some word, not altogether indicative of delight, slipped out of Mr.
Morris's lips, on which his partner cried out, "Hang it, Morris, play
your cards, and hold your tongue!" Considering they were only playing
for sixpences, his lordship, too, was strangely affected.

Maria, still fondly lingering by Harry's chair, with her hand at the
back of it, could see his cards, and that a whole covey of trumps was
ranged in one corner. She had not taken away his luck. She was pleased
to think she had cut that pack which had dealt him all those pretty
trumps. As Lord March was dealing, he had said in a quiet voice to Mr.
Warrington, "The bet as before, Mr. Warrington, or shall we double it?"

"Anything you like, my lord," said Mr. Warrington, very quietly.

"We will say, then,--shillings."

"Yes, shillings," says Mr. Warrington, and the game proceeded.

The end of the day's, and some succeeding days' sport may be gathered
from the following letter, which was never delivered to the person to
whom it was addressed, but found its way to America in the papers of Mr.
Henry Warrington:

"TUNBRIDGE WELLS, August 10, 1756.

"DEAR GEORGE--