 had been taught the full estimation of female virtue; and if her nature could have detested one being in a state of wretchedness, it would have been the woman who had lost her honour: yet, for William, what would not Hannah forfeit? The dignity, the peace, the serenity, the innocence of her own mind, love soon encouraged her to fancy she could easily forego—and this same overpowering influence at times so forcibly possessed her, that she even felt a momentary transport in the idea "of so precious a sacrifice to him."—But then she loved her parents; and their happiness she could not prevail on herself to barter even for his. She wished he would demand some other pledge of her affection; for there was none but this, her ruin in no other shape, that she would deny at his request. While thus she deliberated she prepared for her fall.

Bred up with strict observance both to his moral and religious character, William did not dare to tell an unequivocal lie even to his inferiors—he never promised Hannah he would marry her; nay even, he paid so much respect to the forms of truth, that no sooner was it evident that he had obtained her heart, her whole soul entire—so that loss of innocence would be less terrifying than separation from him—no sooner did he perceive this, than he candidly told her he "could never make her his wife."—At the same time he lamented "the difference of their births, and the duty he owed his parents' hopes," in terms so pathetic to her partial ear, that she thought him a greater object of compassion in love, even than herself; and was now urged by pity to remove the cause of his complainings.
One evening Henry accidentally passed the lonely spot where William and she constantly met—he observed his cousin's impassioned eye, and her affectionate, yet fearful glance. William, he saw, took delight in the agitation of mind, in the strong apprehension mixed with the love

of Hannah; this convinced Henry that either he, or himself, was not in love: for his heart told him he would not have beheld such emotions of tenderness mingled with such marks of sorrow, upon the countenance of Rebecca, for the wealth of the universe.
The first time he was alone with William after this, he mentioned his observation on Hannah's apparent affliction, and asked "Why her grief was the result of their stolen meetings?"
"Because," replied William, "her professions are unlimited, while her manners are reserved; and I accuse her of loving me with unkind
