He had not been long gone before a thundering knock was heard at the door of the house where Amelia lodged, and presently after a figure all pale, ghastly, and almost breathless, rushed into the room where she then was with her children.

This figure Amelia soon recognised to be Mrs. Atkinson, though indeed she was so disguised that at her first entrance Amelia scarce knew her. Her eyes were sunk in her head, her hair dishevelled, and not only her dress but every feature in her face was in the utmost disorder.

Amelia was greatly shocked at this sight, and the little girl was much frightened; as for the boy, he immediately knew her, and, running to Amelia, he cried, “La! mamma, what is the matter with poor Mrs. Atkinson?”

As soon as Mrs. Atkinson recovered her breath she cried out, “O, Mrs. Booth! I am the most miserable of women—I have lost the best of husbands.”

Amelia, looking at her with all the tenderness imaginable, forgetting, I believe, that there had ever been any quarrel between them, said—“Good Heavens, madam, what’s the matter?”

“O, Mrs. Booth!” answered she, “I fear I have lost my husband: the doctor says there is but little hope of his life. O, madam! however I have been in the wrong, I am sure you will forgive me and pity me. I am sure I am severely punished; for to that cursed affair I owe all my misery.”

“Indeed, madam,” cries Amelia, “I am extremely concerned for your misfortune. But pray tell me, hath anything happened to the serjeant?”

“O, madam!” cries she, “I have the greatest reason to fear I shall lose him. The doctor hath almost given him over—he says he hath scarce any hopes. O, madam! that evening that the fatal quarrel happened between us my dear captain took it so to heart that he sat up all night and drank a whole bottle of brandy. Indeed, he said he wished to kill himself; for nothing could have hurt him so much in the world, he said, as to have any quarrel between you and me. His concern, and what he drank together, threw him into a high fever. So that, when I came home from my lord’s—(for indeed, madam, I have been, and set all to rights—your reputation is now in no danger)—when I came home, I say, I found the poor man in a raving delirious fit, and in that he hath continued ever since till about an hour ago, when he came perfectly to his senses; but now he says he is sure he shall die, and begs for Heaven’s sake to see you first. Would you, madam, would you have the goodness to grant my poor captain’s desire? consider he is a dying man, and neither he nor I shall ever ask you a second favour. He says he hath something to say to you that he can mention to no other person, and that he cannot die in peace unless he sees you.”

“Upon my word, madam,” cries Amelia, “I am extremely concerned at what you tell me. I knew the poor serjeant from his infancy, and always had an affection for him, as I think him to be one of the best-natured and honestest creatures upon earth. I am sure if I could do him any service—but of what use can my going be?”

“Of the highest in the world,” answered Mrs. Atkinson. “If you knew how earnestly he entreated it, how his poor breaking heart begged to see you, you would not refuse.”

“Nay, I do not absolutely refuse,” cries Amelia. “Something to say to me of consequence, and that he could not die in peace unless he said it! did he say that, Mrs. Atkinson?”

“Upon my honour he did,” answered she, “and much more than I have related.”

“Well, I will go with you,” cries Amelia. “I cannot guess what this should be; but I will go.”

Mrs. Atkinson then poured out a thousand blessings and thanksgivings; and, taking hold of Amelia’s hand, and eagerly kissing it, cried out, “How could that fury passion drive me to quarrel with such a creature?”

Amelia told her she had forgiven and forgot it; and then, calling up the mistress of the house, and committing to her the care of the children, she cloaked herself up as well as she could and set out with Mrs. Atkinson.

When they arrived at the house, Mrs. Atkinson said she would go first and give the captain some notice; for that, if Amelia entered the room unexpectedly, the surprize might have an ill effect. She left therefore Amelia in the parlour, and proceeded directly upstairs.

Poor Atkinson, weak and bad as was his condition, no sooner heard that Amelia was come than he discovered great joy in his countenance, and presently afterwards she was introduced to him.

Atkinson exerted his utmost strength to thank her for this goodness to a dying man (for so he called himself). He said he should not have presumed to give her this trouble, had he not had something which he thought of consequence to say to her, and which he could not mention to any other person. He then desired his wife to give him a little box, of which he always kept the key himself, and afterwards begged her to leave the room for a few minutes; at which neither she nor Amelia expressed any dissatisfaction.

When he was alone with Amelia, he spoke as follows: “This, madam, is the last time my eyes will ever behold what—do pardon me, madam, I will never offend you more.” Here he sunk down in his bed, and the tears gushed from his eyes.

“Why should you fear to offend me, Joe?” said Amelia. “I am sure you never did anything willingly to offend me.”

“No, madam,” answered he, “I would die a thousand times before I would have ventured it in the smallest matter. But—I cannot speak—and yet I must. You cannot pardon me, and yet, perhaps, as I am a dying man, and never shall see you more—indeed, if I was to live after this discovery, I should never dare to look you in the face again; and yet, madam, to think I shall never see you more is worse than ten thousand deaths.”

“Indeed, Mr. Atkinson,” cries Amelia, blushing, and looking down on the floor, “I must not hear you talk in this manner. If you have anything to say, tell it me, and do not be afraid of my anger; for I think I may promise to forgive whatever it was possible you should do.”

“Here then, madam,” said he, “is your picture; I stole it when I was eighteen years of age, and have kept it ever since. It is set in gold, with three little diamonds; and yet I can truly say it was not the gold nor the diamonds which I stole—it was the face, which, if I had been the emperor of the world—”

“I must not hear any more of this,” said she. “Comfort yourself, Joe, and think no more of this matter. Be assured, I freely and heartily forgive you—But pray compose yourself; come, let me call in your wife.”

“First, madam, let me beg one favour,” cried he: “consider it is the last, and then I shall die in peace—let me kiss that hand before I die.”

“Well, nay,” says she, “I don’t know what I am doing—well—there.” She then carelessly gave him her hand, which he put gently to his lips, and then presently let it drop, and fell back in the bed.

Amelia now summoned Mrs. Atkinson, who was indeed no further off than just without the door. She then hastened down-stairs, and called for a great glass of water, which having drank off, she threw herself into a chair, and the tears ran plentifully from her eyes with compassion for the poor wretch she had just left in his bed.

To say the truth, without any injury to her chastity, that heart, which had stood firm as a rock to all the attacks of title and equipage, of finery and flattery, and which all the treasures of the universe could not have purchased, was yet a little softened by the plain, honest, modest, involuntary, delicate, heroic passion of this poor and humble swain; for whom, in spite of herself, she felt a momentary tenderness and complacence, at which Booth, if he had known it, would perhaps have been displeased.

Having staid some time in the parlour, and not finding Mrs. Atkinson come down (for indeed her husband was then so bad she could not quit him), Amelia left a message with the maid of the house for her mistress, purporting that she should be ready to do anything in her power to serve her, and then left the house with a confusion on her mind that she had never felt before, and which any chastity that is not hewn out of marble must feel on so tender and delicate an occasion.