gasped in the mists of the sultry air for breath. Below were heard the
noises of London; the shrill cries of itinerant vendors, the rolling
carts, the whoop of boys returned for a while from school. Amidst all
these rose one loud, merry peal of laughter, which drew his attention
mechanically to the spot whence it came; it was at the threshold of a
public-house, before which stood the hearse that had conveyed his
mother's coffin, and the gay undertakers, halting there to refresh
themselves. He closed the window with a groan, retired to the farthest
corner of the room, and read as follows:

"MY DEAREST PHILIP,--When you read this, I shall be no more. You and
poor Sidney will have neither father nor mother, nor fortune, nor name.
Heaven is more just than man, and in Heaven is my hope for you. You,
Philip, are already past childhood; your nature is one formed, I think,
to wrestle successfully with the world. Guard against your own passions,
and you may bid defiance to the obstacles that will beset your path in
life. And lately, in our reverses, Philip, you have so subdued those
passions, so schooled the pride and impetuosity of your childhood, that I
have contemplated your prospects with less fear than I used to do, even
when they seemed so brilliant. Forgive me, my dear child, if I have
concealed from you my state of health, and if my death be a sudden and
unlooked-for shock. Do not grieve for me too long. For myself, my
release is indeed escape from the prison-house and the chain--from bodily
pain and mental torture, which may, I fondly hope, prove some expiation
for the errors of a happier time. For I did err, when, even from the
least selfish motives, I suffered my union with your father to remain
concealed, and thus ruined the hopes of those who had rights upon me
equal even to his. But, O Philip! beware of the first false steps into
deceit; beware, too, of the passions, which do not betray their fruit
till years and years after the leaves that look so green and the blossoms