 mind was so violently agitated, that I never once thought of Nancy Weston, and the poor girl's modesty wou'd have prevented her from ever applying to me, or being farther burthensome, as she expresses it, had not chance thrown her in my way at this time.—She works with a very creditable chamber milliner, who had known her formerly at her cousin's, and who will take her into partnership with a few hundreds, which she shall have with an hearty welcome into the bargain, for I think I need not tell you, that her happiness will contribute to mine.

That puppy Williams has been witty upon hearing that an handsome milliner's doll, as he calls her, drank tea with me, on Sunday last.—He happened to call upon me that evening, and my trusty Scipio refused to admit him, tho' he would not make the common excuse of saying I was not at home.—He has teized me ever since with a deal of unmeaning ribaldry, and presses me most vehemently to introduce him to my favourite; but that I never shall; she is much too good and amiable to be the sport of such a libertine.
If he may be credited, which I much doubt, he has been successful in his amour—he no longer conceals the lady's name, 'tis Harrison; he shewed her to me in the rooms—I never saw a more elegant form, nor a more lively countenance—when he saluted her, she

smiled and blushed.—Can it be possible that guilt should assume that first of female charms, the joint result of senfibility and modesty.
She danced a minuet with Lord March, and then took out Captain Williams—she acquitted herself in both the minuets, with infinite grace and ease.—Surely it is impossible she cou'd be conscious of having forfeited her honour, and yet still continue to wear the semblance of chearful innocence.
As she did not dance country dances, I joined her party and drank tea with her—I talked to her a considerable time, and tho' I think there is too much levity in her manner, I cannot prevail upon myself to believe that she has fallen a sacrifice to such a contemptible trifler as Williams. Mrs. Peachurn says,

How are those mothers to be pitied who have handsome daughters? I say, How are those handsome girls to be pitied, who have not mothers? Miss Harrison has been an orphan, from her birth; her father was one of those gallant, but unfortunate officers, who lost their lives with Braddock; her mother was then pregnant of this girl;—she lived
