my cassock and bands, he
must have money," cried the chaplain.

"Amen. Go and pawn your bands, your cassock, anything you please. Your
enthusiasm does you credit," said my lord; and resumed the reading of
his paper, whilst, in the deepest despondency, poor Sampson left him.

My Lady Maria meanwhile had heard that the chaplain was with her
brother, and conjectured what might be the subject on which they had
been talking. She seized upon the parson as he issued from out his
fruitless interview with my lord. She drew him into the dining-room: the
strongest marks of grief and sympathy were in her countenance. "Tell me,
what is this has happened to Mr. Warrington?" she asked.

"Your ladyship, then, knows?" asked the chaplain.

"Have I not been in mortal anxiety ever since his servant brought the
dreadful news last night?" asked my lady. "We had it as we came from the
opera--from my Lady Yarmouth's box--my lord, my Lady Castlewood, and I."

"His lordship, then, did know?" continued Sampson.

"Benson told the news when we came from the playhouse to our tea,"
repeats Lady Maria.

The chaplain lost all patience and temper at such duplicity. "This
is too bad," he said, with an oath; and he told Lady Maria of the
conversation which he had just had with Lord Castlewood, and of the
latter's refusal to succour his cousin, after winning great sums of
money from him, and with much eloquence and feeling, of Mr. Warrington's
most generous behaviour to himself.

Then my Lady Maria broke out with a series of remarks regarding her own
family, which were by no means complimentary to her own kith and kin.
Although not accustomed to tell truth commonly, yet, when certain
families fall out, it is wonderful what a number of truths they will
tell about one another. With tears, imprecations, I do not like to
think how much stronger language, Lady Maria burst into a furious and
impassioned tirade, in which she touched upon the history of almost all
her noble family. She complimented the men and the ladies alike; she
shrieked out interrogatories to Heaven, inquiring why it had made such
(never mind what names she called her brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts,
parents); and, emboldened with wrath, she dashed at her brother's
library door, so shrill in her outcries, so furious in her demeanour,
that the alarmed chaplain, fearing the scene which might ensue, made for
the street.

My lord, looking up from the book or other occupation which engag