that pretended to marry them.'--'It is but
too true,' cried Jenkinson, 'I cannot deny it, that was the employment
assigned me, and I confess it to my confusion.'

'Good heavens!' exclaimed the Baronet, 'how every new discovery of
his villainy alarms me. All his guilt is now too plain, and I find his
present prosecution was dictated by tyranny, cowardice and revenge; at
my request, Mr Gaoler, set this young officer, now your prisoner, free,
and trust to me for the consequences. I'll make it my business to
set the affair in a proper light to my friend the magistrate who has
committed him. But where is the unfortunate young lady herself: let
her appear to confront this wretch, I long to know by what arts he has
seduced her. Entreat her to come in. Where is she?'

'Ah, Sir,' said I, 'that question stings me to the heart: I was once
indeed happy in a daughter, but her miseries--' Another interruption
here prevented me; for who should make her appearance but Miss Arabella
Wilmot, who was next day to have been married to Mr Thornhill. Nothing
could equal her surprize at seeing Sir William and his nephew here
before her; for her arrival was quite accidental. It happened that she
and the old gentleman her father were passing through the town, on their
way to her aunt's, who had insisted that her nuptials with Mr Thornhill
should be consummated at her house; but stopping for refreshment, they
put up at an inn at the other end of the town. It was there from the
window that the young lady happened to observe one of my little boys
playing in the street, and instantly sending a footman to bring the
child to her, she learnt from him some account of our misfortunes; but
was still kept ignorant of young Mr Thornhill's being the cause. Though
her father made several remonstrances on the impropriety of going to a
prison to visit us, yet they were ineffectual; she desired the child
to conduct her, which he did, and it was thus she surprised us at a
juncture so unexpected.

Nor can I go on, without a reflection on those accidental meetings,
which, though they happen every day, seldom excite our surprize but upon
some extraordinary occasion. To what a fortuitous concurrence do we
not owe every pleasure and convenience of our lives. How many seeming
accidents must unite before we can be cloathed or fed. The peasant
must be disposed to labour, the shower must fall, the wind fill the
merchant's sail, or numbers must want the usual supply.