—'I knew not how—I could not answer your letter. What shall I say?—I am with-held from explaining myself further, by reasons—obligations—Who can look back on every action of his past life with approbation? Mine has not been free from error! I am distressed, perplexed—Insuperable obstacles forbid what otherwise'—

'I feel,' said I, interrupting him, 'that I am the victim of my own weakness and vanity—I feel, that I have been rushing headlong into the misery which you kindly sought to spare me—I am sensible of your delicacy—of your humanity!—And is it with the full impression of your virtues on my heart that I must teach that heart to renounce you—renounce, for ever, the man with whose pure and elevated mind my own panted to mingle? My reason has been blinded by the illusions of my self-love—and, while I severely suffer, I own my sufferings just—yet, the sentiments you inspired were worthy of you! I understand little of—I have violated common forms—seeking your tenderness, I have perhaps forfeited your esteem!'

'Far, very far, from it—I would, but cannot, say more.'

'Must we, then, separate for ever—will you no longer assist me in the pursuit of knowledge and truth—will you no more point out to me the books I should read, and aid me in forming a just judgment of the principles they contain—Must all your lessons be at an end—all my studies be resigned? How, without your counsel and example, shall I regain my strength of mind—to what end shall I seek to improve myself, when I dare no longer hope to be worthy of him—'

A flood of tears checked my utterance; hiding my face with my hands, I gave way to the kindly relief, but for which my heart had broken. I heard footsteps in the passage, and the voice of Mrs Denbeigh as speaking to her servant—covered with shame and grief, I dared not in this situation appear before her, but, rushing out at an opposite door, hid myself in my chamber. A train of confused recollections tortured my mind, I concluded, that Augustus had another, a prior attachment. I felt, with this conviction, that I had not the fortitude, and that perhaps I ought not, to see him again. I wrote to him under this impression; I poured out my soul in anguish, in sympathy, in fervent aspirations for his happiness. These painful and protracted conflicts affected my health, a deep and habitual depression preyed upon my spirits, and, surveying every object through the medium of a distempered imagination, I
