st and good. I would advise you to send him a
letter by the post, intimating all his nephew's ill usage, and my life
for it that in three days you shall have an answer.' I thank'd him for
the hint, and instantly set about complying; but I wanted paper, and
unluckily all our money had been laid out that morning in provisions,
however he supplied me.

For the three ensuing days I was in a state of anxiety, to know what
reception my letter might meet with; but in the mean time was frequently
solicited by my wife to submit to any conditions rather than remain
here, and every hour received repeated accounts of the decline of my
daughter's health. The third day and the fourth arrived, but I received
no answer to my letter: the complaints of a stranger against a favourite
nephew, were no way likely to succeed; so that these hopes soon vanished
like all my former. My mind, however, still supported itself though
confinement and bad air began to make a visible alteration in my health,
and my arm that had suffered in the fire, grew worse. My children
however sate by me, and while I was stretched on my straw, read to me by
turns, or listened and wept at my instructions. But my daughter's
health declined faster than mine; every message from her contributed
to encrease my apprehensions and pain. The fifth morning after I had
written the letter which was sent to sit William Thornhill, I was
alarmed with an account that she was speechless. Now it was, that
confinement was truly painful to me; my soul was bursting from its
prison to be near the pillow of my child, to comfort, to strengthen
her, to receive her last wishes, and teach her soul the way to heaven!
Another account came. She was expiring, and yet I was debarred the small
comfort of weeping by her. My fellow prisoner, some time after, came
with the last account. He bade me be patient. She was dead!--The next
morning he returned, and found me with my two little ones, now my only
companions, who were using all their innocent efforts to comfort me.
They entreated to read to me, and bade me not to cry, for I was now
too old to weep. 'And is not my sister an angel, now, pappa,' cried the
eldest, 'and why then are you sorry for her? I wish I were an angel
out of this frightful place, if my pappa were with me.' 'Yes,' added
my youngest darling, 'Heaven, where my sister is, is a finer place than
this, and there are none but good people there, and the people here are
very bad.'

Mr Je