too.
My dear Mr. Warrington, thinking you were as rich as Croesus--otherwise
I never should have sate down to cards with you--I wrote to you
yesterday, begging you to lend me some money to appease some hungry duns
whom I don't know how else to pacify. My poor fellow! every shilling
of your money went to them, and but for my peer's privilege I might be
hob-and-nob with you now in your dungeon. May you soon escape from it,
is the prayer of your sincere CASTLEWOOD."

This was the result of application number one: and we may imagine that
Mr. Harry read the reply to his petition with rather a blank face. Never
mind! There was kind, jolly Uncle Warrington. Only last night his aunt
had kissed him and loved him like a son. His uncle had called down
blessings on his head, and professed quite a paternal regard for him.
With a feeling of shyness and modesty in presence of those virtuous
parents and family. Harry had never said a word about his wild doings,
or his horse-racings, or his gamblings, or his extravagances. It must
all out now. He must confess himself a Prodigal and a Sinner, and ask
for their forgiveness and aid. So Prodigal sate down and composed a
penitent letter to Uncle Warrington, and exposed his sad case, and
besought him to come to the rescue. Was not that a bitter nut to crack
for our haughty young Virginian? Hours of mortification and profound
thought as to the pathos of the composition did Harry pass over that
letter; sheet after sheet of Mr. Amos's sixpence-a-sheet letter-paper
did he tear up before the missive was complete, with which poor
blubbering Gumbo (much vilified by the bailiff's followers and
parasites, whom he was robbing, as they conceived, of their perquisites)
went his way.

At evening the faithful negro brought back a thick letter in his aunt's
handwriting. Harry opened the letter with a trembling hand. He thought
it was full of bank-notes. Ah me! it contained a sermon (Daniel in the
Lions' Den) by Mr. Whitfield, and a letter from Lady Warrington saying
that, in Sir Miles's absence from London, she was in the habit of
opening his letters, and hence, perforce, was become acquainted with a
fact which she deplored from her inmost soul to learn, namely, that her
nephew Warrington had been extravagant and was in debt. Of course, in
the absence of Sir Miles, she could not hope to have at command such
a sum as that for which Mr. Warrington wrote, but she sent him her
heartfelt prayers, her deepest