A Sunday sight in London.—Colin meets with his best friend, and receives a heart-breaking epistle from Miss Wintlebury.

IT was not during the six days only, but on Sundays also, that Colin found employment at Peter Veriquear's. As regularly as the Sabbath came, he was converted into an animal of draught and burden, by being placed at the pole of that cradle-coach already alluded to, and engaged during stated hours in giving his employer's young family an airing amongst the delightful precincts of Hoxton New Town and the Hackney-road. On one of these occasions he very luckily, though accidentally, met with a gentleman whom he very much wished to see, and to whom, also, I shall have much pleasure in re-introducing the reader.

The day was uncommonly cold, considering the time of the year. Colin's face, as he breasted the blast, strongly resembled a raw carrot; while behind him sat four little red-and-blue looking animals, muffled up into no shape, and each “tiled” with an immense brimmed hat, which gave them altogether much the appearance of a basket of young flap-mushrooms.

“Don't cry, my dear!” said Colin, as he suddenly caught hold, and half twinged the cold button-like nose off the face of each in succession,—“Don't cry, dears,—and you shall have some pudding as soon as the baker has baked it. We shall soon be at home, Georgy. There, wrap your fingers up. See what a big dog that is!”

A tap on the shoulder with the end of a walking-cane interrupted his string of exclamations, and at the same moment a voice, which he had somewhere heard before, addressed him with—“And do not you remember whose dog he is?”

Colin turned hastily round, and beheld Squire Lupton standing on the edge of the curb-stone. If his cheeks were red before, they became scarlet now; for, though his occupation involved nothing censurable, he blushed deeply, and for the moment could not utter a word.

“What!” exclaimed Mr. Lupton, as he gazed in admiration on the contents of the four-wheeled basket, “so young, and such a family as that? God bless my soul!—why, surely they are not all your own?”

Colin did the best he could to clear himself of such an awful responsibility, avowing that he had no participation whatever in the affair, beyond what his duty in drawing them about might be considered to involve. Of this, indeed, the Squire did not require any very powerful proof, as he had given utterance to the remark more as a piece of pleasantry, than with any idea that it would be considered as meant in earnest.

As the streets of London do not at any time offer any very peculiar facilities for private conversation, and especially upon such important matters as those which both the Squire and Colin felt it necessary to be discussed between them, a very brief colloquy was all that passed on the present occasion, though sufficiently long to inform Mr. Lupton how poor a situation the young man had been obliged to accept since his arrival in town, merely to find himself in the most common necessaries of life. On the other hand, Colin ascertained that the Squire's absence from Kiddal, just after his last singular interview with him there, was in consequence of a visit which he was under the necessity of making to the metropolis, and to which was entirely owing his very fortunate, but accidental, meeting with him at the present moment. Before they parted, Mr. Lupton charged him, on his return home, to give Mr. Veriquear immediate warning to quit his service the following week, or as early as possible, as he had another mode of life in view for him, which he hoped would tend much more materially to his comfort and future happiness.

In the mean time, he requested him to wait upon him the following evening at a certain hotel at the west end of the town which he named, and where they might discuss all necessary matters in quiet and at leisure.

When Colin informed his employer of his adventure, and the consequence to which it had led in rendering it necessary that he should quit his service,—“Very well,” said Veriquear, “if you wish to leave me, that is no business of mine. As you came, so you must go. I am sorry to part with you; though I don't know what business it is of mine to grieve about it. You have your objects in the world, and I have mine; so I suppose we must each go his own way about them. Only if you consider yourself right in leaving so suddenly, I shall make it my duty not to pay you this week's wages.” Colin protested that as circumstances had altered with him, he considered that a matter of very little consequence, and would willingly forego any demand which otherwise he might make upon him. Mr. Veriquear felt secretly gratified at the sacrifice his man thus frankly volunteered to make; and, by way of requital, told him not only that he might consider himself at liberty to depart on any day of the ensuing week that he pleased, but also added, “And if at any time it should so happen that I can be of any service to you, apply to me; but mind you, it must not be about other people's business. If it is any business of mine, I 'll meddle; but your business, you know, is your own. Other people's is theirs; and mine is mine, and nobody else's.”

Most probably Colin would that evening have called at Mrs. Popple's and communicated the agreeable intelligence, of which his head and heart were alike full, to poor Miss Wintlebury, had he not been arrested, just as he was on the point of setting out, by a small packet addressed to himself, which some unknown hand had left at the door, and within which, on opening, he found a trifling article or two of remembrance, and the following note:—

“My dear friend,

“It is with great satisfaction I sit down to write these few lines, informing you of the good news, that yesterday my father arrived from the country, bringing the intelligence that a comfortable small fortune had been left him by my uncle very unexpectedly, and that he has this day taken my brother and myself back again to our native place to pass the rest of our lives, and in hopes that thereby my own may be prolonged. But my poor dear father will be deceived! He knows not what anguish I have gone through, and he never shall know. Nevertheless, the country will be to me like a new heaven for the short time I am permitted to enjoy it; though the horrors of my past life will never cease to darken the scene.

“I can scarcely express the delight I feel in being enabled, through this reverse in our condition, to enclose a sum which, I trust, will leave me your debtor only in that gratitude which no payment can wipe away.

“The other trifles perhaps you may keep, if not too poor for acceptance; but as I know that our continued acquaintance could end only in deeper misery to us both, I deem it the only wise and proper course to withhold from you all knowledge of our future place of abode; and if you will in one thing more oblige me, never attempt to seek it out. I am bound speedily for another world, and must form no more ties with this.

“Heaven bless you and yours! And that you may be lastingly happy, as you deserve, will be the prayer, to the end of her days, of

“Harriet.”

A ten-pound note, a ring, and a brooch were enclosed.

Colin immediately repaired, on reading this, to his late lodgings, in hopes of seeing the writer before her departure; but he was too late. The contents of the letter were verified; and he could not obtain from the landlady the most remote information as to what part of the country she had retired.