He looked at me with surprise. "Thetford! this is not his abode. He
changed his habitation some weeks previous to the _fever_. Those who
last dwelt under this roof were an Englishwoman and seven daughters."

This detection of my error somewhat consoled me. It was still possible
that Wallace was alive and in safety. I eagerly inquired whither
Thetford had removed, and whether he had any knowledge of his present
condition.

They had removed to No.--, in Market Street. Concerning their state he
knew nothing. His acquaintance with Thetford was imperfect. Whether he
had left the city or had remained, he was wholly uninformed.

It became me to ascertain the truth in these respects. I was preparing
to offer my parting thanks to the person by whom I had been so highly
benefited; since, as he now informed me, it was by his interposition
that I was hindered from being enclosed alive in a coffin. He was
dubious of my true condition, and peremptorily commanded the followers
of the hearse to desist. A delay of twenty minutes, and some medical
application, would, he believed, determine whether my life was
extinguished or suspended. At the end of this time, happily, my senses
were recovered.

Seeing my intention to depart, he inquired why, and whither I was going.
Having heard my answer,--"Thy design," resumed he, "is highly indiscreet
and rash. Nothing will sooner generate this fever than fatigue and
anxiety. Thou hast scarcely recovered from the blow so lately received.
Instead of being useful to others, this precipitation will only disable
thyself. Instead of roaming the streets and inhaling this unwholesome
air, thou hadst better betake thyself to bed and try to obtain some