der my own child, or so much as to harbour a thought so barbarous in my mind. But, as I said, Amy effected all afterwards, without my knowledge, for which I gave her my hearty curse, though I could do little more; for to have fallen upon Amy had been to have murdered myself. But this tragedy requires a longer story than I have room for here. I return to my journey.

My dear friend the Quaker was kind, and yet honest, and would do anything that was just and upright to serve me, but nothing wicked or dishonourable. That she might be able to say boldly to the creature, if she came, she did not know where I was gone, she desired I would not let her know; and to make her ignorance the more absolutely safe to herself, and likewise to me, I allowed her to say that she heard us talk of going to Newmarket, &c. She liked that part, and I left all the rest to her, to act as she thought fit, only charged her, that if the girl entered into the story of the Pallmall, she should not entertain much talk about it, but let her understand, that we all thought she spoke of it a little too particularly and that the lady (meaning me) took it a little ill, to be so likened to a public mistress, or a stage-player, and the like; and so to bring her, if possible, to say no more of it. However, though I did not tell my friend the Quaker how to write to me, or where I was, yet I left a sealed paper with her maid to give her, in which I gave her a direction how to write to Amy, and so in effect to myself.

It was but a few days after I was gone, but the impatient girl came to my lodgings on pretence to see how I did, and to hear if I intended to go the voyage, and the like. My trusty agent was at home, and received her coldly at the door; but told her that the lady, which she supposed she meant, was gone from her house.

This was a full stop to all she could say for a good while; but as she stood musing some time at the door, considering what to begin a talk upon, she perceived my friend the Quaker looked a little uneasy, as if she wanted to go in and shut the door, which stung her to the quick; and the wary Quaker had not so much as asked her to come in; for seeing her alone, she expected she would be very impertinent, and concluded that I did not care how coldly she received her. But she was not to be put off so. She said if the Lady was not to be spoken with, she desired to speak two or three words with her, meaning my friend the Quaker. Upon that the Quaker civilly, but coldly, asked her to walk in, which was what she wanted. Note.-She did not carry her into her best parlour, as formerly, but into a little outer room, where the servants usually waited.

By the first of her discourse she did not stick to insinuate as if she believed I was in the house, but was unwilling to be seen; and pressed earnestly that she might speak but two words with me; to which she added earnest entreaties, and at last tears.

desire any

such method; nor does the Lady. such kind of service from me, as I know of. If she had been in the house I should have told thee so."

She said little to that; but said, It was business of the utmost importance that she desired to speak with me about; and then cried again very much.

"Thou seemest to be sorely afflicted," says the Quaker; “I wish I could give thee any relief; but if nothing will comfort thee but seeing the Lady. it is not in my power."

"I hope it is," says she again; "to be sure, it is of great consequence to me; so much, that I am undone without it."

"Thou troublest me very much to hear thee say so," says the Quaker; "but why, then, did'st thou not speak to her apart when thou wast here before?"

"I had no opportunity," says she, "to speak to her alone, and I could not do it in company; if I could have spoken but two words to her alone I would have thrown myself at her feet, and asked her blessing."

"I am surprised at thee; I do not understand thee," says the Quaker.

"O!" says she, "stand my friend, if you have any charity, or if you have any compassion for the miserable; for I am utterly undone !"

"Thou terrifiest me," says the Quaker, "with such passionate expressions! for verily I cannot comprehend thee!"

mother! and she does not own me!" "O!" says she, "she is my mother! she is my

to be greatly moved indeed; " I am astonished at "Thy mother!" says the Quaker; and began thee; what dost thou mean?"

"I mean nothing but what I say," says she; "I say again, she is my mother! and will not own me;" and with that she stopped with a flood of tears.

"Not own thee!" says the Quaker; and the tender creature wept too; "why, she says she does not know thee, and never saw thee before." No," says the girl, "I believe she does not know me, but I know her; and I know that she is my mother."

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"It's impossible! thou talkest mystery!" says the Quaker; “wilt thou explain thyself a little to me?"

Yes, yes," says she, "I can explain it well enough; I am sure she is my mother, and I have broke my heart to search for her; and to lose her again, when I was so sure I had found her, will break my heart more effectually."

"Well, but if she by thy mother," says the Quaker, "how can it be that she should not know thee?"

"Alas!" says she, "I have been lost to her ever since I was a child; she has never seen me."

"And hast thou never seen her?" says the Quaker.

"Yes," says she, "I have seen her, often enough, I saw her; for when she was the Lady Roxana I was her housemaid, being a servant, but I did not know her then, nor she me; but it has all come out since. Has she not a maid named Amy?" Note. The honest Quaker wai

nonplussed, and greatly surprised at that question.

"True," she says; "the Lady has several women servants, but I do not know all their names. ท

"But her woman, her favourite," adds the girl; "is not her name Amy?"

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Why, truly," says the Quaker, with a very happy turn of wit, "I do not like to be examined; but lest thou shouldst take up any mistakes, by reason of my backwardness to speak, I will answer thee for once, that what her woman's name is I know not; but they call her Cherry."

N. B. My husband gave her that name in jest, on our wedding day, and we had called her by it ever after; so that she spoke literally true at that time.

The girl replied very modestly, that she was was sorry if she gave her any offence in asking; that she did not design to be rude to her, or pretend to examine her; but that she was in such an agony at this disaster that she knew not what she did or said; and that she should be very sorry to disoblige her, but begged of her again, as she was a Christian and a woman, and had been a mother of children, that she would take pity on her, and, if possible, assist her, so that she might but come to me, and speak a few words to me.

The tender-hearted Quaker told me the girl spoke this with such moving eloquence, that it forced tears from her; but she was obliged to say, that she neither knew where I was gone, or how to write to me; but that if she did ever see me again she would not fail to give me an account of all we had said to her, or that she should yet think fit to say; and to take my answer to it, if I thought fit to give any.

Then the Quaker took the freedom to ask a few particulars about this wonderful story, as she called it; at which the girl, beginning at the first distresses of my life, and indeed of her own, went through all the history of her miserable education, her service under the Lady Roxana, as she called me, and her relief by Mrs Amy, with the reasons she had to believe that as Amy owned herself to be the same that lived with her mother, and especially that Amy was the Lady Roxana's maid, too, and came out of France with her, she was by those circumstances, and several others in her conversation, as fully convinced that the lady Roxana was her mother as she was that the Lady at her house (the Quaker's), was the very same Roxana that she had been

servant to.

My good friend, the Quaker, though terribly shocked at the story, and not well knowing what to say, yet was too much my friend to seem convinced in a thing, which, if it was true, she could see plainly I had a mind should not be known; so she turned her discourse to argue the girl out of it. She insisted upon the slender evidence she had of the fact itself, and the rudeness of claiming so near a relation of one so much above her, and of whose concern in it she had no knowledge, at least, no sufficient proof; that as the lady at her house was a person above any disguises, so she could not believe that she would deny her being her daughter, if she was really her mother; that she was able sufficiently to

have provided for her if she had not a mind to have her known; and, therefore, seeing she had heard all she had said of the Lady Roxana, and was so far from owning herself to be the person, that she had censured that sham lady as a cheat and common woman; and that it was certain she could never be brought to own a name and character she had so justly exposed.

Besides, she told her that her lodger, meaning me, was not a sham lady, but the real wife of a knight baronet; and that she knew her to be honestly such, and far above such a person as she had described. She then added that she had another reason why it was not very possible to to be true, and that is, says she, “Thy age is in the way; for thou acknowledgest that thou art four-and-twenty years old; and that thou wast the youngest of three of thy mother's children; so that by thy account thy mother must be extremely young, or this lady cannot be thy mother; for thou seest," says she, "and any one may see, she is but a young woman now, and cannot be supposed to be above forty years old, if she is so much; and is now big with child at her going into the country; so that I cannot give any credit to thy notion of her being thy mother; and if I might counsel thee it should be to give over that thought as an improbable story that does but serve to disorder thee, and disturb thy head; for," added she, “I perceive thou art much disturbed indeed."

But this was all nothing: she could be satis fied with nothing but seeing me; but the Quaker defended herself very well, and insisted on it, that she could not give her any account of me; and finding her still importunate, she affected at last, being a little disgusted that she should not believe her, and added, that indeed, if she had known where I was gone, she would not have given any one an account of it, unless I had given her orders to do so; "but seeing she has not acquainted me," says she, "where she is gone, 'tis an intimation to me, she was not desirous it should be publicly known;" and with this she rose up, which was as plain a desiring her to rise up too and begone, as could be expressed, except the downright showing her the door.

Well, the girl rejected all this, and told her, she could not indeed expect that she (the Quaker) should be affected with the story she had told her, however moving, or that she should take any pity on her. That it was her misfortune, that when she was at the house before, and in the room with me, she did not beg to speak a word with me in private, or throw herself upon the floor at my feet, and claim what the affection of a mother would have done for her; but since she had slipped her opportunity, she would wait for another; that she found by her (the Quaker's) talk, that she had not quite left her lodgings, but was gone into the country, she supposed, for the air; and she was resolved she would take so much knight-errantry upon her, that she would visit all the airing places in the nation, and even all the kingdom over, ay, and Holland too, but she would find me; for she was satisfied she could so convince me that she was my own child, that I would not deny it; and she was sure I was so tender and compassionate I would not let her perish after I was convinced that she was

this she took her leave.

My faithful agent the Quaker, failed not to write to me immediately; but as she was a cunning, as well as an honest woman, it presently occurred to her that this was a story which, whether true or false, was not very fit to come to my husband's knowledge; that as she did not know what I might have been, or might have been called in former times, and how far there might have been something or nothing in it, so she thought if it was a secret, I ought to have the telling it myself; and if it was not, it might as well be public afterwards as now; and that, at least, she ought not to leave it where she found it, and hand it forwards to anybody without my consent. These prudent measures were inexpressibly kind, as well as seasonable; it had been likely enough that her letter might have come publicly to me, and though my husband would not have opened it, yet it would have looked a little odd that I should conceal its contents from him, when I had pretended so much to communicate all my affairs.

In consequence of this wise caution, my good friend only wrote me a few words, that the impertinent young woman had been with her, as she expected she would; and that she thought it would be convenient that, if I could spare Cherry, I would send her up, (meaning Amy), because she found there might be some occasion for her.

As it happened this letter was inclosed to Amy herself, and not sent by the way I had at first ordered; but it came safe to my hands; and though I was alarmed a little at it, yet I was not acquainted with the danger I was in of an immediate visit from this teazing creature till afterwards; and I run a greater risk, indeed, than ordinary in that I did not send Amy up under fourteen days, believing myself as much concealed at Tunbridge as if I had been at Vienna.

But the concern of my faithful spy, (for such my Quaker was now, upon the mere foot of her own sagacity), I say, her concern for me, was my safety in this exigence, when I was, as it were, keeping no guard for myself; for, finding Amy not come up, and that she did not know how soon this wild thing might put her designed ramble in practice, she sent a messenger to the captain's wife's house, where she lodged, to tell her that she wanted to speak with her. She was at the heels of the messenger, and came eager for some news; and hoped, she said, the lady, (meaning me), had been come to town.

The Quaker, with as much caution as she was mistress of, not to tell a downright lie, made her believe she expected to hear of me very quickly; and frequently, by the bye, speaking of being abroad to take the air, talked of the country, about Bury, how pleasant it was, how wholesome, and how fine an air; how the downs about Newmarket were exceeding fine; and what a vast deal of company there was, now the court was there; till at last, the girl began to

conclude, that my ladyship was gone thither; for, she said, she knew I loved to see a great deal of company.

"Nay," says my friend, "thou takest me wrong, I did not suggest," says she, "that the person thou enquirest after is gone thither, neither do I believe she is, I assure thee." Well, the girl smiled, and let her know that she believed it for all that; so, to clench it fast, " Verily," says she, with great seriousness, "thou dost not do well, for thou suspectest everything and believest nothing. I speak solemnly to thee that I do not believe they are gone that way; so if thou givest thyself the trouble to go that way, and art disappointed, do not say that I have deceived thee." She knew well enough that if this did abate her suspicion it would not remove it; and that it would do little more than amuse her; but by this she kept her in suspense till Amy came up, and that was enough.

When Amy came up she was quite confounded to hear the relation which the Quaker gave her, letting me know, to my great satisfaction, that and found means to acquaint me of it; only she would not come to Tunbridge first; but that she would certainly go to Newmarket or Bury

first.

However, it gave me very great uneasiness; for as she resolved to ramble in search after me over the whole country, I was safe no where, no, not in Holland itself; so, indeed, I did not know what to do with her; and thus I had a bitter in all my sweet, for I was continually perplesed with this hussy, and thought she haunted me like an evil spirit.

In the mean time Amy was next door to starkmad about her; she durst not see her at my lodgings for her life; and she went days without number to Spitalfields, where she used to come, and to her former lodging, and could never meet with her; at length she took up a mad resolution that she would go directly to the captain's house in Rotherhithe, and speak with her; it was a mad step, that's true; but as Amy said she was mad, so nothing she could do could be otherwise. For if Amy had found her at Rotherhithe, she (the girl) would have concluded presently that the Quaker had given her notice, and so that we were all of a knot; and that, in short, all she had said was right. But as it happened, things came to hit better than we expected; for that Amy going

out of a coach to take water at Tower Wharf

meets the girl just come on shore, having crossed the water from Rotherhithe. Amy made as if she would have passed by her, though they met so full that she did not pretend she did not see her, for she looked fairly upon her first: but then turning her head away with a slight, offered to go from her; but the girl stopped, and spoke first, and made some manners to her

Amy spoke coldly to her, and a little angry;! and after some words, standing in the street, or passage, the girl saying she seemed to be angry, and would not have spoken to her, "Why," says Amy, "how can you expect I should have any more to say to you after I had done so much for you, and you have behaved so to me?" The girl seemed to take no notice of that now, but answered-" I was going to wait on you now.'