He gave it to me with his own hands; and, till the moment I unfortunately lost it, it was my dear and perpetual companion." "Good heaven!" she exclaimed, with increasing vehemence; "where did you meet with him?
What has become of him?
Is he dead, or alive ?" These appearances sufficiently showed me that Clavering and this lady were connected by some ties of tenderness.

I answered that he was dead; that my mother and myself were his attendants and nurses, and that this portrait was his legacy to me.
This intelligence melted her into tears, and it was some time before she recovered strength enough to resume the conversation.

She then inquired, "When and where was it that he died?
How did you lose this portrait?
It was found wrapped in some coarse clothes, lying in a stall in the market-house, on Saturday evening.

Two negro women, servants of one of my friends, strolling through the market, found it and brought it to their mistress, who, recognising the portrait, sent it to me.

To whom did that bundle belong?
Was it yours ?" These questions reminded me of the painful predicament in which I now stood.