gentleman was slowly pacing up and down in a large dining-room. He had
apparently finished his dinner, although it was not yet five o'clock,
and the descending sun shone bright and warm through the windows, which
were level with the ground, and from which there was a view of a
spacious park, highly ornamented with old timber. He held a newspaper in
one hand, and had the other behind his back, as if for support, for he
was bent forward, and looked very feeble and emaciated.

After pacing for some time, he sat down in an easy chair and remained in
deep thought, holding the newspaper in both his hands.

This old gentleman's name was Sir Charles Wilmot. He had in early life
gone out to India as a writer, and after remaining there for a few
years, during which he had amassed a handsome fortune, was advised to
leave the country for a time on account of his health. He returned to
England on furlough, and had not been there more than six months when
the death, without issue, of his eldest brother, Sir Henry Wilmot, put
him in possession of the entailed estates and of the baronetcy.

This decided him not to return to India for his wife and three
daughters, whom he had left out there, but to write, desiring them to
return home by the first ship. The reply which he received was most
painful; his wife and two of his daughters had been carried off by the
cholera, which had been very fatal during the previous rainy season.
His remaining daughter was about to sail, in obedience to his wishes, in
the _Grosvenor_ East-Indiaman, under the care of Colonel and Mrs. James,
who were near connections.

This was a heavy blow with which it pleased God to visit him in his
prosperity, and was almost a total wreck of all his hopes and