y are strangers to
me; but the friends by whom I am introduced will procure me a welcome
reception. Adieu.

ELIZA WHARTON.

LETTER III.

TO THE SAME.

NEW HAVEN.

Is it time for me to talk again of conquests? or must I only enjoy them
in silence? I must write to you the impulses of my mind, or I must not
write at all. You are not so morose as to wish me to become a nun, would
our country and religion allow it. I ventured, yesterday, to throw aside
the habiliments of mourning, and to array myself in those more adapted
to my taste. We arrived at Colonel Farington's about one o'clock. The
colonel handed me out of the carriage, and introduced me to a large
company assembled in the hall.

My name was pronounced with an _emphasis_, and I was received with the
most flattering tokens of respect. When we were summoned to dinner, a
young gentleman in a clerical dress offered me his hand, and led me to a
table furnished with an elegant and sumptuous repast, with more
gallantry and address than commonly fall to the share of students. He
sat opposite me at table; and whenever I raised my eye, it caught his.
The ease and politeness of his manners, with his particular attention to
me, raised my curiosity, and induced me to ask Mrs. Laiton who he was.
She told me that his name was Boyer; that he was descended from a
worthy family; had passed with honor and applause through the university
where he was educated; had since studied divinity with success; and now
had a call to settle as a minister in one of the first parishes in a
neighboring state.

The gates of a spacious garden were thrown open at this instant, and I
accepted with avidity an invitation to walk in it. Mirth and hilarity
prevailed, and the moments fled on downy wings, while we traced the
beauties of Art and Nature, so liberally displayed and so happily
blended in this delightful retreat. An enthusiastic admirer of scenes
like these, I had rambled some way from the company, when I was followed
by Mrs. Laiton to offer her condolence on the supposed loss which I had
sustained in the death of Mr. Haly. My heart rose against the woman, so
ignorant of human nature as to think such conversation acceptable at
such a time. I made her little reply, and waved the subject, though I
could not immediately dispel the gloom which it excited.

The absurdity of a custom authorizing people at a first interview to
revive the idea of griefs which time has lulled, perhaps obliterat