corner of Lefevre's silk handkerchief, which laid on the table.

"Sure enough, so it is boy!" said the father. "Why this is proof positive."

"Let me know what I have to pay," said Lefevre again, putting his handkerchief into his pocket, and retiring haughtily from a discussion which left him no room for any thing but humiliating confession.

"O certainly, Sir," resumed the landlord, "but if you mean by that, you are going away, I must make bold to tell you, you cannot leave this house."

"Prevent me at your peril," said

Lefevre.

"Ha! peril be on me! but I will,” said the determined publican.

Lefevre moved towards the door. The publican put out his arm to prevent him, and continued calmly," Let us understand one another young man. I don't mean to hurt you, or insult you-no, no, but I think it my bounden duty to keep you, till your friends can be informed where you are. If you will stay quietly, we will do every thing to make you com

fortable; if

you will not, we must use means-for go you sha'n't till we've sent to Lon'on."

The little room was now filling with persons, curious to know the subject of altercation. Lefevre could, at no time, bear the gaze of impertinence; and now, in such equivocal circumstances, it was intolerable. He made his passage through the crowd-gained his chamber-and, renouncing afresh all intercourse with human society, shut his door resentfully on the whole world; while the landlord instantly adopted means to prevent his escape, should he be disposed to attempt it.

This precaution, however, was unnecessary. Time was, when in such a situation, the exasperated spirit of Lefevre would have scorned all ordinary fastenings; but now a little child might watch him. His spirits, though not softened, were broken; and it was only when suddenly exposed to real or fancied provocation, that they rose and flashed with indignation, and then sunk again in powerless apathy. Melancholy was evidently preying on the

energies of his soul. He was becoming unconquerably averse from speech and motion; and, if he had a desire, it appeared to be merely, that he should be left alone. All this day he scarcely moved, and did not speak. He sat almost in the same posture, and gazed vacantly on one blank part of the partition which confined him. It was doubtless unpropitious to him, that he had fallen into such hands just at this stage of his complaint. His host, it must be allowed, acted towards him with honest intentions and general kindness; but without that gentle sympathy, which has often reached a desperate wound, after resisting remedies of more imposing name. Lefevre felt this; his disordered mind gave the worst coloring to the conduct of his host; and, by poring on it, it helped to fix a conviction which had become almost indelible-that he was abhorred of God, and despised of all men!

CHAPTER XXIV.

EARLY the following day, Mr. Perry, with an attendant, arrived in post-chaise to claim his nephew, and bear him back to town. This duty he performed very much to his credit. Elate with joy at finding his relative, after so many apprehensions for his safety, he freely expressed his delight, and restrained himself from any thing like upbraiding. He was, however, a little mortified when he perceived, that he was rendering what he thought a very important service to one, who refused to offer the slightest acknowledgment.

Lefevre, indeed, was neither satisfied nor displeased with his arrival. He was ready to obey his bidding; but it was less from any inclination to move, than from a dislike to resistance. He passed from his chamber to the chaise without a look or a word; and went from the Inn at Brompton to his uncle's residence, nearly uncon

scious of what was happening to him. Many a time did his uncle endeavour to rouse him to attention and speech; but finding no success, he turned away from him to his other companion. "Well,” thought he, "this is odd; but his mother will make him speak I'll be bound."

The carriage stopt at the door. They alighted; and ascended to the room where Mrs. Lefevre was waiting to receive them. Her attentive ear heard them coming. She ran towards them. Her quick eye glanced on the features of her child to assure herself of his identity. ""Tis he! Tis he!" she exclaimed, embracing him. "Mother!" cried Lefevre, with a faint voice, as his head sunk on her bosom. "My son! My son!" she replied, falling on his neck and sobbing aloud.

Mrs. Lefevre struggled to suppress her emotions of joy, that she might be at liberty to utter them in free communion, with her son. It was in vain; her son could not be induced to speak again. One word had burst from his heart on falling into the arms of a parent, who loved him so entirely,