it

up for irrecoverable, I became for a few moments motionless, and a statue.

A violent burst of tears recovered me to sense and motion and just then Miss Grandison, (who, having heard her brother withdraw, forbore for a few minutes to enter, supposing he would return,) hearing me sob, rushed in.—O my Harriet! said she, clasping her arms about me, what is done?-Do I, or do I not, embrace my sister, my real sister, my sister Grandison?

Ah, my Charlotte! No flattering hope is now left me— no sister! It must not, it cannot be ! The lady is—but lead me, lead me out of this room!-I don't love it! spreading one hand before my eyes, my tears trickling between my fingers tears that flowed not only for myself, but for Sir Charles Grandison and the unhappy Clementina: for, gather you not, from what he said, that something disastrous has befallen the 'poor lady? And then, supporting myself with her arm, I hurried out of Lord L- -'s study, and up stairs into my own chamber; she following me—Leave me, leave me here, dear creature, said I, for six minutes: I will attend you then, in your own dressing-room.

She kindly retired; I threw myself into a chair, indulged my tears for a few moments, and was the fitter to receive the two sisters, who, hand in hand, came into my room to comfort me.

But I could not relate what had passed immediately with any connexion: I told them only, that all was over; that their brother was to be pitied, not blamed; and that if they would allow me to recollect some things that were most affecting, I would attend them; and they should have my narrative the more exactly, for the indulgence.

They staid no longer with me than to see me a little composed.

Sir Charles and Dr. Bartlett went out together in his chariot: he inquired more than once of my health; saying to his sister Charlotte, that he was afraid he had affected me too much, by the melancholy tale he had been telling me.

He excused himself from dining with us. Poor man! What must be his distress!-Not able to see us, to sit with us!

I would have excused myself also, being not very fit to appear; but was not permitted.

I sat, however, but a very little while at table after dinner; yet how tedious did the dinner-time appear! The servants' eyes were irksome to me; so were Emily's, (dear girl!) glistening as they did, though she knew not for what, but sympathetically, as I may say; she supposing, that all was not as she would have it.

She came up soon after to me— -One word, my dearest madam, (the door in her hand, and her head only within it:) tell me only that there is no misunderstanding between my guardian and you!-Tell me only that

None, my dear!-None, none at all, my Emily!

Thank God! clasping her hands together; thank God! If there were, I should not have known whose part to take! -But I won't disturb you-and was going. Stay, stay, my precious young friend! I arose; took her hand: My sweet girl! with me?

Stay, my Emily! say, will you live

God for ever bless you, dearest madam!-Will I? It is the wish next my heart.

Will you go down with me to Northamptonshire, my love? To the world's end I will attend you, madam: I will be your handmaid; and I will love you better than I love my guardian, if possible.

Ah, my dear! but how will you live without seeing your guardian now and then?

Why, he will live with us, won't he?

No, no, my dear!-And you would choose, then, to live with him, not with me; would you ?

if

Indeed but I won't-indeed I will live and die with you, you will let me; and I warrant his kind heart will often lead him to us. But tell me, why these tears, madam?. why this grief?-Why do you speak so quick and short? And why do you seem to be in such a hurry?

Do I speak quick and short? Do I seem to be in a hurry? Thank you, my love, for your observation. And now leave me: I will profit by it.

The amiable girl withdrew on tiptoe; and I set about composing myself.

I was obliged to her for her observation: it was really of use to me. But you must think, Lucy, that I must be fluttered. His manner of leaving me-was it not particular? To break from me so abruptly, as I may say—and what he said with looks so earnest! Looks that seemed to carry more meaning than his words: and withdrawing without conducting me out, as he had led me in-and as if -I don't know how as if-but you will give me your opinion of all these things. I can't say but I think my suspense is over; and yet in a way not very desirable— yet-but why should I puzzle myself? What must be,

must.

At afternoon-tea, the gentlemen not being returned, and Emily undertaking the waiter's office, I gave my lord and the two ladies, though she was present, some account of what had passed, but briefly; and I had just finished, and was quitting the room, as the two gentlemen entered the door,

Sir Charles instantly addressed me with apologies for the concern he had given me. His emotion was visible as he spoke to me. He hesitated: he trembled. Why did he hesitate? Why did he tremble?

I told him, I was not ashamed to own, that I was very much affected by the melancholy story. The poor lady, said I, is greatly to be pitied-but remember, sir, what you promised Doctor Bartlett should do for me.

I have been requesting the doctor to fulfil my engage

ments.

And I am ready to obey, said the good man. My agreeable task shall soon be performed.

As I was at the door, going up stairs to my closet, I courtesied, and pursued my intention.

He bowed, said nothing, and looked, I thought, as if he were disappointed, that I did not return to company.-No, indeed!

Yet I pity him, at my heart: how odd is it, then, to be angry with him?-So much goodness, so much sensibility, so much compassion, (whence all his woes, I believe,) never met together, in a heart so manly.

Tell me, tell me, my dear Lucy-yet tell me nothing till I am favoured with, and you have read, the account that will be given me by Dr. Bartlett: then, I hope, we shall have every thing before us.

Saturday, March 25.

HE [Yet why that disrespectful word?-Fie upon me, for my narrowness of heart!] Sir Charles is setting out for town. He cannot be happy, himself: he is therefore giving himself the pleasure of endeavouring to make his friends so. He can enjoy the happiness of his friends! O the blessing of a benevolent heart! Let the world frown as

it will upon such a one, it cannot possibly bereave it of all delight.-Fortune, do thy worst! If Sir Charles Grandison cannot be happy with his Clementina, he will make himself a partaker of Lord G's happiness; and as that will secure, if not her own fault, the happiness of his sister, he will not be destitute of felicity. And let me, after his example—Ah, Lucy! that I could!—But in time, I hope, I shall deserve, as well as be esteemed, to be the girl of my grandmamma and aunt; and then, of course, be worthy to be called, my dear Lucy, your

HARRIET BYRON.

Saturday noon.

SIR CHARLES is gone, and I have talked over the matter again with the ladies and Lord L

What do you think?—They all will have it—and it is a faithful account, to the very best of my recollection-they all will have it, that Sir Charles's great struggle, his great grief, is owing-his great struggle (I don't know what I write, I think-but let it go) is between his compassion for the unhappy Clementina, and his love-for-somebody else.

But who, my dear, large as his heart is, can be contented with half a heart? Compassion, Lucy!-The compassion of such a heart-It must be love-and ought it not to be to such a woman ?—Tell me-don't you, Lucy, with all yours, pity the unhappy Clementina; who loves, against the principles of her religion, and, in that respect, against her inclination, a man who cannot be hers, but by a violation of his honour and conscience?-What a fatality in a love so circumstanced!-To love against inclination ! What a sound has that! But what an absurdity is this passion called love? Or, rather, of what absurd things does