 noble harvest. I shall not be forgetful of the distinction you have shewn me, when almost a deserted orphan—Once again—farewel, my friend, and—may God bless you!'

I precipitately withdrew my hand from his, and rushed out of the room. I retired to my chamber, and it was some hours before my spirits became sufficiently composed to allow me to rejoin my friends. On meeting them, Mrs Harley mentioned, with some surprize, the abrupt departure of Montague, who had quitted the house, without taking leave of its owners, by whom he had been so politely received.

'He is a fine young man,' added she, 'but appears to be very eccentric.'

Augustus was silent, but fixed his penetrating eyes on my face, with an expression that covered me with confusion.

 

 

CHAPTER XXV

The day fixed for the departure of Mr Harley, for London, now drew near—I had anticipated this period with the most cruel inquietude. I was going to lose, perhaps for ever, my preceptor, my friend! He, from whom my mind had acquired knowledge, and in whose presence my heart had rested satisfied. I had hitherto scarcely formed a wish beyond that of daily beholding, and listening to him—I was now to gaze on that beloved countenance, to listen to those soothing accents, no longer. He was about to mix in the gay world—to lose in the hurry of business, or of pleasure, the remembrance of those tender, rational, tranquil, moments, sacred to virtue and friendship, that had left an indelible impression on my heart. Could I, indeed, flatter myself, that the idea of the timid, affectionate, Emma, would ever recur to his mind in the tumultuous scenes of the crouded metropolis, it would doubtless quickly be effaced, and lost in the multiplicity of engagements and avocations. How should I, buried in solitude and silence, recall it to his recollection, how contrive to mingle it with his thoughts, and entangle it with his associations? Ah! did he but know my tenderness—the desire of being beloved, of inspiring sympathy, is congenial to the human heart—why should I hesitate to inform him of my affection—why do I blush and tremble at the mere idea? It is a false shame! It is a pernicious system of morals, which teaches us that hypocrisy can be virtue! He is well acquainted with the purity, and with the sincerity, of my heart—he will at least regard me with esteem and tender pity—and how often has 'pity melted the soul to love!' The experiment is, surely, innocent, and little hazardous
