 really adores you, will conquer all remains of regret; and you will, by degrees, learn to think of Willoughby, and of all the events of your early life, with the most perfect indifference.
Celestina thought that was impossible—but altogether unable to enter into the argument, she could only sigh, and in a tremulous voice intreat to be permitted to retire; saying that, in the morning, she should

have, she hoped, more resolution, and have got the better of the agitation of her spirits. Sleep, however, refused to visit her—the image of Willoughby, cruel and capricious as he was, incessantly haunted her. Having been long used to study his countenance, she understood all its expressions; and when she had courage to fix her eyes on him, during the opera, no turn of it escaped her: all the comfort she could derive to herself from those observations was, believing that his attention to Miss FitzHayman was forced; and that the solicitude with which she herself was avoided, arose, rather from some remains of tenderness, than from total indifference. "Surely," said she, "if he felt nothing for me, he would not fly from me, but treat me with polite indifference; or, with that candour and openness of heart which used to be so natural to him; he would avow his designs, and give his reasons for them; for he knows, that be his intentions or his motives what they may, I shall never reproach

him; but, whatever I may feel for myself, rejoice, if he can find happiness."
Thus, the real affection of her heart for Willoughby, counteracted the effect of that native pride and dignity of soul, which, under other circumstances, would have supported her; and even of his quitting her, without finding that unanswerable reason for it, which was once supposed to exist, she thought rather in sorrow, than in anger.
The morning came, joyless and uninteresting to her—she expected nothing but a repetition of common, irksome occurrences, with the suspense and misery of not hearing from Willoughby.—Lady Horatia's remonstrance—Montague Thorold's silent, but assiduous attendance—company whom she wished not to see—or parties abroad that could afford her no pleasure.
The day, and another and another, wore away, and still no letter from Willoughby arrived—the forlorn hope, which she had till now fondly, cherished, that he still retained

a lingering preference for her in his heart, now faded away; and an almost certain conviction succeeded, that he not only quitted her for ever, but disclaimed her even as
