ie than part with it.'

'Take it from her, Johnson,' said the justice.

In vain I struggled. The man forced my hands from my bosom, and,
catching hold of the ribbon, dragged the picture from me, and handed it
to the justice. My misery was now complete--I could endure no more--and
with a bitter scream I sunk to the ground in a swoon.

How long my insensibility lasted I do not know; but when recollection
returned I found myself supported in a chair by a woman who was a
spectator, and Johnson, the officer, was sprinkling me with water. It
was some minutes before I could speak or stand, but, as soon as I could,
I arose and earnestly entreated to have the picture restored to me.

'Keep your seat, Lady Anne,' said the justice. 'If the picture is yours,
it certainly shall be returned to you; but try to recollect yourself,
and give me some account how it came into your possession.'

'It is my father's picture,' I replied. 'My mother always wore it; and
when she died a gentleman--Mr. Sanders, the clergyman of the
parish--took care of it for me, and when I was sent to London he let me
have it myself, that I might, if I should ever meet with my father, be
able to know him. That is all I know. Now, pray, sir, let me have the
picture again, for it is the only comfort I have in the world, and if
you take it from me I shall die.'

'Do you not, then, child, know your father's name? Do you not know who
he is?'

'Oh, if I knew his name I should not be here; but I do not know his
name, and I do not know who he is.'

'Did you ever see him?'

'Yes; but it is very long since. He went away when I was five years old,
and I have never seen him since.'

During these questions many heavy sighs had proceeded from some person
near, but at my last answer that gentleman who was seated beside the
justice rose up, and, coming round to me, took my hands, saying:

'Look at me, my child, and tell me if you think you ever saw _me_
before.'

I did look at him; but, oh! how can I describe the astonishment and joy
I felt when in his countenance I traced, though more advanced in life,
the features of that portrait that had so long been my greatest
comfort? I sunk down before him, and, clasping his knees, exclaimed:

'Surely, surely, you are my father--you are my mother's dear Frederick!'

Overpowered by my feelings, I again fainted. When I recovered, I found
myself laid upon a sofa in a handsome apartment. One of the ladies whom
I had seen in