such confidence in him, aunt, notwithstanding all you say, that I
would willingly risk my happiness for the chance of securing his. I will
leave better men to those who only consider their own advantage. If he
has done amiss, I shall consider my life well spent in saving him from
the consequences of his early errors, and striving to recall him to the
path of virtue. God grant me success!'

Here the conversation ended, for at this juncture my uncle's voice was
heard from his chamber, loudly calling upon my aunt to come to bed. He
was in a bad humour that night; for his gout was worse. It had been
gradually increasing upon him ever since we came to town; and my aunt
took advantage of the circumstance next morning to persuade him to return
to the country immediately, without waiting for the close of the season.
His physician supported and enforced her arguments; and contrary to her
usual habits, she so hurried the preparations for removal (as much for my
sake as my uncle's, I think), that in a very few days we departed; and I
saw no more of Mr. Huntingdon. My aunt flatters herself I shall soon
forget him--perhaps she thinks I have forgotten him already, for I never
mention his name; and she may continue to think so, till we meet
again--if ever that should be. I wonder if it will?

CHAPTER XVIII

August 25th.--I am now quite settled down to my usual routine of steady
occupations and quiet amusements--tolerably contented and cheerful, but
still looking forward to spring with the hope of returning to town, not
for its gaieties and dissipations, but for the chance of meeting Mr.
Huntingdon once again; for still he is always in my thoughts and in my
dreams. In all my employments, whatever I do, or see, or hear, has an
ultimate reference to him; whatever skill or knowledge I acquire is some
day to be turned to his advantage or amusement; whatever new beauties in
nature or art I discover are to be depicted to meet his eye, or stored in
my memory to be told him at some future period. This, at least, is the
hope that I cherish, the fancy that lights me on my lonely way. It may
be only an ignis fatuus, after all, but it can do no harm to follow it
with my eyes and rejoice in its lustre, as long as it does not lure me
from the path I ought to keep; and I think it will not, for I have
thought deeply on my aunt's advice, and I see clearly, now, the folly of
throwing myself away on one that is unworthy of all the lov