tunate enough to save, with that of her child," said Mr. Simpson, carrying the little girl into the parlour, where the mother was laid on a sofa by the fire, whilst the worthy clerk began rubbing the child's hands and feet, which were numbed by cold and starvation; and when in a few minutes, by the active kindness of Mrs. Wetherall and Susan, food was placed on the table, he fed her like a young bird, bit by bit, lest the too hasty indulgence of her eager appetite should injure her.
In the mean time the circumstances under which the party had met were narrated—and Mrs. Wetherall was loud in her wonder as to what could have taken her husband to Blackfriars Bridge at that time of night—"he that always comes home the moment he is released from the post-office! I dare say he never did such a thing in his life before. Did you Wetherall?"
"I believe not," replied he. "But there were a great many letters to sort to-night; and I came away with such a headache, that I thought a walk would do me good."
"Do you belong to the post-office, Sir?" inquired Mr. Simpson.
"I do," replied Mr. Wetherall, casting down
