untenance and
guise was mild and encouraging.

"Good friend," I exclaimed, "here is a young man too indisposed to walk.
I want him carried to his lodgings. Will you, for money or for charity,
allow him a place in your chaise, and set him down where I shall
direct?" Observing tokens of hesitation, I continued, "You need have no
fears to perform this office. He is not sick, but merely feeble. I will
not ask twenty minutes, and you may ask what reward you think proper."

Still he hesitated to comply. His business, he said, had not led him
into the city. He merely passed along the skirts of it, whence he
conceived that no danger would arise. He was desirous of helping the
unfortunate; but he could not think of risking his own life in the cause
of a stranger, when he had a wife and children depending on his
existence and exertions for bread. It gave him pain to refuse, but he
thought his duty to himself and to others required that he should not
hazard his safety by compliance.

This plea was irresistible. The mildness of his manner showed that he
might have been overpowered by persuasion or tempted by reward. I would
not take advantage of his tractability; but should have declined his
assistance, even if it had been spontaneously offered. I turned away
from him in silence, and prepared to return to the spot where I had left
my friend. The man prepared to resume his way.

In this perplexity, the thought occurred to me that, since this person
was going into the country, he might, possibly, consent to carry Wallace
along with him. I confided greatly in the salutary influence of rural
airs. I believed that debility constituted the whole of his complaint;
that continuance in the city might occasion his relapse, or, at least,
procrastinate his restoration.

I once more addressed myself to the traveller, and inquired in what
direction and how far he was going. To my unspeakable satisfaction, his
answer informed me that his home lay beyond Mr. Hadwin's, and that this
road carried him directly past that gentleman's door. He was willing to
receive Wallace into his chaise, and to leave him at his uncle's.

This joyous and auspicious occurrence surpassed my fondest hopes. I
hurried with the pleasing tidings to Wallace, who eagerly consented to
enter the carriage. I thought not at the moment of myself, or how far
the same means of escaping from my danger might be used. The stranger
could not be anxious on my account; and Wallace's