Yours, ever as ever, "PHILIP BEAUFORT.
This letter has told its tale, and little remains to explain.

Philip Beaufort was one of those men of whom there are many in his peculiar class of society--easy, thoughtless, good-humoured, generous, with feelings infinitely better than his principles.
Inheriting himself but a moderate fortune, which was three parts in the hands of the Jews before he was twenty-five, he had the most brilliant expectations from his uncle; an old bachelor, who, from a courtier, had turned a misanthrope--cold--shrewd--penetrating--worldly--sarcastic--and imperious; and from this relation he received, meanwhile, a handsome and, indeed, munificent allowance.

About sixteen years before the date at which this narrative opens, Philip Beaufort had "run off," as the saying is, with Catherine Morton, then little more than a child,--a motherless child--educated at a boarding-school to notions and desires far beyond her station; for she was the daughter of a provincial tradesman.

And Philip Beaufort, in the prime of life, was possessed of most of the qualities that dazzle the eyes and many of the arts that betray the affections.

It was suspected by some that they were privately married: if so, the secret had been closely kept, and baffled all the inquiries of the stern old uncle.