bly
sobbed.

Miss Arabella followed her uncle Antony, as he walked in before me, and
seemed as if she would have spoken to the pierced mother some words of
comfort. But she was unable to utter them, and got behind her mother's
chair; and, inclining her face over it, on the unhappy lady's shoulder,
seemed to claim the consolation that indulgent parent used, but then was
unable, to afford her.

Young Mr. Harlowe, with all his vehemence of spirit, was now subdued.
His self-reproaching conscience, no doubt, was the cause of it.

And what, Sir, must their thoughts be, which, at that moment, in a
manner, deprived them of all motion, and turned their speech into sighs
and groans!--How to be pitied, how greatly to be pitied! all of them!
But how much to be cursed that abhorred Lovelace, who, as it seems, by
arts uncommon, and a villany without example, has been the sole author
of a woe so complicated and extensive!--God judge me, as--But I stop--
the man (the man can I say?) is your friend!--He already suffers, you
tell me, in his intellect.--Restore him, Heaven, to that--If I find the
matter come out, as I apprehend it will--indeed her own hint of his usage
of her, as in her will, is enough--nor think, my beloved cousin, thou
darling of my heart! that thy gentle spirit, breathing charity and
forgiveness to the vilest of men, shall avail him!--But once more I stop
--forgive me, Sir!--Who could behold such a scene, who could recollect it
in order to describe it, (as minutely as you wished me to relate how this
unhappy family were affected on this sad occasion,) every one of the
mourners nearly related to himself, and not to be exasperated against the
author of all?

As I was the only person (grieved as I was myself) from whom any of them,
at that instant, could derive comfort; Let us not, said I, my dear
Cousin, approaching the inconsolable mother, give way to a grief, which,
however just, can now avail us nothing. We hurt ourselves, and cannot
recall the dear creature for whom we mourn. Nor would you wish it, if
you know with what assurance of eternal happiness she left the world--She
is happy, Madam!--depend upon it, she is happy! And comfort yourselves
with that assurance!

O Cousin, Cousin! cried the unhappy mother, withdrawing her hand from
that of her sister Hervey, and pressing mine with it, you know not what
a child I have lost!--Then in a low voice, and how lost!--That it is that
makes the loss insupportable.