“O, Miss, something must have happened—there’s nobody in Miss Sharp’s room; the bed ain’t been slep in, and she’ve run away, and left this letter for you, Miss.” “what!” cries Briggs, dropping her comb, the thin wisp of faded hair falling over her shoulders; “an elopement! Miss Sharp a fugitive! What, what is this?” and she eagerly broke the neat seal, and, as they say, “devoured the contents” of the letter addressed to her.

Dear Miss Briggs [the refugee wrote], the kindest heart in the world, as yours is, will pity and sympathise with me and excuse me. With tears, and prayers, and blessings, I leave the home where the poor orphan has ever met with kindness and affection. Claims even superior to those of my benefactress call me hence. I go to my duty—to my husband. Yes, I am married. My husband commands me to seek the humble home which we call ours. Dearest Miss Briggs, break the news as your delicate sympathy will know how to do it—to my dear, my beloved friend and benefactress. Tell her, ere I went, I shed tears on her dear pillow—that pillow that I have so often soothed in sickness—that I long again to watch —Oh, with what joy shall I return to dear Park Lane! How I tremble for the answer which is to seal my fate! When Sir Pitt deigned to offer me his hand, an honour of which my beloved Miss Crawley said I was deserving (my blessings go with her for judging the poor orphan worthy to be her sister!) I told Sir Pitt that I was already a wife. Even he forgave me. But my courage failed me, when I should have told him all—that I could not be his wife, for I was his daughter! I am wedded to the best and most generous of men—Miss Crawley’s Rawdon is my Rawdon. At his command I open my lips, and follow him to our humble home, as I would through the world. O, my excellent and kind friend, intercede with my Rawdon’s beloved aunt for him and the poor girl to whom all his noble race have shown such unparalleled affection. Ask Miss Crawley to receive her children. I can say no more, but blessings, blessings on all in the dear house I leave, prays

Your affectionate and grateful

Rebecca Crawley.

Midnight.

Just as Briggs had finished reading this affecting and interesting document, which reinstated her in her position as first confidante of Miss Crawley, Mrs. Firkin entered the room. “Here’s Mrs. Bute Crawley just arrived by the mail from Hampshire, and wants some tea; will you come down and make breakfast, Miss?” And to the surprise of Firkin, clasping her dressing-gown around her, the wisp of hair floating dishevelled behind her, the little curl-papers still sticking in bunches round her forehead, Briggs sailed down to Mrs. Bute with the letter in her hand containing the wonderful news.

“Oh, Mrs. Firkin,” gasped Betty, “sech a business. Miss Sharp have a gone and run away with the Capting, and they’re off to Gretney Green!” We would devote a chapter to describe the emotions of Mrs. Firkin, did not the passions of her mistresses occupy our genteeler muse.

When Mrs. Bute Crawley, numbed with midnight travelling, and warming herself at the newly crackling parlour fire, heard from Miss Briggs the intelligence of the clandestine marriage, she declared it was quite providential that she should have arrived at such a time to assist poor dear Miss Crawley in supporting the shock—that Rebecca was an artful little hussy of whom she had always had her suspicions; and that as for Rawdon Crawley, she never could account for his aunt’s infatuation regarding him, and had long considered him a profligate, lost, and abandoned being. And this awful conduct, Mrs. Bute said, will have at least this good effect, it will open poor dear Miss Crawley’s eyes to the real character of this wicked man. Then Mrs. Bute had a comfortable hot toast and tea; and as there was a vacant room in the house now, there was no need for her to remain at the Gloster Coffee House where the Portsmouth mail had set her down, and whence she ordered Mr. Bowls’s aide-de-camp the footman to bring away her trunks. Miss Crawley, be it known, did not leave her room until near noon—taking chocolate in bed in the morning, while Becky Sharp read the Morning Post to her, or otherwise amusing herself or dawdling. The conspirators below agreed that they would spare the dear lady’s feelings until she appeared in her