our head?" She
exclaimed, with great emotion, "Add not to the upbraidings of a wounded
spirit. Have pity upon me, O my friend, have pity upon me. Could you
know what I suffer, you would think me sufficiently punished." "I wish
you no other punishment," said I, "than what may effect your repentance
and reformation. But your mother, Eliza! She cannot long be ignorant of
your fall; and I tremble to think of her distress. It will break her
widowed heart. How has she loved, how has she doted upon you! Dreadful
is the requital which you have made." "My mother," rejoined she, "O,
name her not! The very sound is distraction to me. O my Julia, if your
heart be not shut against mercy and compassion towards me, aid me
through this trying scene. Let my situation call forth your pity, and
induce you, undeserving as I am, to exert it in my behalf."

During this time, I had walked the chamber. My spirits had been raised
above their natural key, and were exhausted. I sat down, but thought I
should have fainted, till a copious flood of tears gave me relief. Eliza
was extremely affected. The appearance of calamity which she exhibited
would have softened the most obdurate anger. Indeed, I feared some
immediate and fatal effect. I therefore seated myself beside her; and
assuming an air of kindness, "Compose yourself, Eliza," said I; "I
repeat what I told you before--it is the purest friendship which thus
interests me in your concerns. This, under the direction of charity,
induces me again to offer you my hand. Yet you have erred against
knowledge and reason, against warning and counsel. You have forfeited
the favor of your friends, and reluctant will be their forgiveness." "I
plead guilty," said she, "to all your charges. From the general voice I
expect no clemency. If I can make my peace with my mother, it is all I
seek or wish on this side the grave. In your benevolence I confide for
this. In you I hope to find an intercessor. By the remembrance of our
former affection and happiness, I conjure you, refuse me not At present,
I entreat you to conceal from her this distressing tale. A short,
reprieve is all I ask." "Why," said I, "should you defer it? When the
painful task is over, you may find relief in her lenient kindness."
"After she knows my condition, I cannot see her," resumed she, "till I
am assured of her forgiveness. I have not strength to support the
appearance of her anger and grief. I will write to her what I cannot
speak. You