I am now drawing towards an abode that looks
brighter as I approach it: this expectation cheers my afflictions, and
though I leave an helpless family of orphans behind me, yet they will
not be utterly forsaken; some friend, perhaps, will be found to assist
them for the sake of their poor father, and some may charitably relieve
them for the sake of their heavenly father.'

Just as I spoke, my wife, whom I had not seen that day before, appeared
with looks of terror, and making efforts, but unable to speak. 'Why, my
love,' cried I, 'why will you thus encrease my afflictions by your
own, what though no submissions can turn our severe mister, tho' he has
doomed me to die in this place of wretchedness, and though we have lost
a darling child, yet still you will find comfort in your other children
when I shall be no more.' 'We have indeed lost,' returned she, 'a
darling child. My Sophia, my dearest, is gone, snatched from us, carried
off by ruffians!'

'How madam,' cried my fellow prisoner, 'Miss Sophia carried off by
villains, sure it cannot be?'

She could only answer with a fixed look and a flood of tears. But one of
the prisoners' wives, who was present, and came in with her, gave us a
more distinct account: she informed us that as my wife, my daughter, and
herself, were taking a walk together on the great road a little way out
of the village, a post-chaise and pair drove up to them and instantly
stopt. Upon which, a well drest man, but not Mr Thornhill, stepping
out, clasped my daughter round the waist, and forcing her in, bid the
postillion drive on, so that they were out of sight in a moment.

'Now,' cried I, 'the sum of my misery is made up, nor is it in the power
of any thing on earth to give me another pang. What! not one left! not
to leave me one! the monster! the child that was next my heart! she had
the beauty of an angel, and almost the wisdom of an angel. But support
that woman, nor let her fall. Not to leave me one!'--'Alas! my husband,'
said my wife, 'you seem to want comfort even more than I. Our distresses
are great; but I could bear this and more, if I saw you but easy. They
may take away my children and all the world, if they leave me but you.'

My Son, who was present, endeavoured to moderate our grief; he bade
us take comfort, for he hoped that we might still have reason to be
thankful.--'My child,' cried I, 'look round the world, and see if there
be any happiness left me now. Is not every ray of com