"His father had fallen in the battle of the Pyrenees, and his mother was left with the bare pension of a captain's widow, only one week before the banker, where all their private fortune was deposited, had failed. A few months brought Mrs Seymour to the brink of destitution and the grave; her pension died with her, and Charles was left, with the poor Lolotte, entirely dependent on the small salary be received as clerk in Mr Russel's office; and even this poor situation had been procured for him by the chance interest he had inspired in the apothecary, who had, from mere humanity, attended his mother. His future prospects destroyed—confined to his desk the whole day—debarred from intellectual acquirement—shut out from his former pursuits—with all the feelings of birth and station strong within him, young Seymour would have despaired, but for his sister; for her sake he exerted himself; for her sake he hoped. They lived on in their little back room over the grocer's shop, kept by the widow of a soldier in his father's regiment; he knew he could confide in the old woman's kindness to the child during his unavoidable absence; and, though it was a long walk night and morning to the city, he thought only how healthy the air of Hampstead was for Lolotte; however weary, he was still the companion of her evening walk, or else was up early to accompany her on the heath. In her he concentred all the pride of better days; she was always dressed with scrupulous neatness; his leisure hours were devoted to giving her something of education, and every indulgence did he deny himself in order to bring her home the pretty toy or book, to reconcile her to the solitude of their lonely chamber; and patiently did the little creature make her own pleasure or employment till his return, and then quite forgot that she had sometimes looked from the window, and thought how merrily the children played in the street.
"Three years had thus passed away, and brought with them but added anxiety. Charles felt that over-exertion was undermining his health; and Lolotte—the graceful, the fairy-like—how little would he be able to give her those accomplishments, for which her delicate hand, her light step, and her sweet voice, seemed made! and worse, how little would they suit her future prospects, if be could! It was her seventh birthday, and he was bringing her a young rose-tree as a present, but he felt languid and desponding—
