upon her cheek, and her eyes were fuller than
was common, of meaning.

"Such-and-such," I once said, "are my notions; now, what do _you_
think?"

"_Think_!" emphatically, and turning somewhat aside, she answered;
"that you are the most--_strange_ of human creatures."

"But tell me," I resumed, following and searching her averted eyes; "am
I right? would you do thus? Can you help me to improve my girl? I wish
you knew the bewitching little creature. How would that heart overflow
with affection and with gratitude towards you! She should be your
daughter. No--you are too nearly of an age for that. A sister; her
_elder_ sister, you should be. _That_, when there is no other relation,
includes them all. Fond sisters you would be, and I the fond brother of
you both."

My eyes glistened as I spoke. In truth, I am in that respect a mere
woman. My friend was more powerfully moved. After a momentary struggle
she burst into tears.

"Good heaven!" said I, "what ails you? Are you not well?"

Her looks betrayed an unaccountable confusion, from which she quickly
recovered:--"It was folly to be thus affected. Something ailed me, I
believe, but it is past. But, come, you want some lines of finishing the
description of the _Boa_ in La Cepide."

"True. And I have twenty minutes to spare. Poor Franks is very ill
indeed, but he cannot be seen till nine. We'll read till then."

Thus on the wings of pleasure and improvement passed my time; not
without some hues, occasionally, of a darker tint. My heart was now and
then detected in sighing. This occurred when my thoughts glanced at the
poor Eliza, and measured, as it were, the interval between us. "We are
too--_too_ far apart," thought I.

The best solace on these occasions was the company of Mrs. Fielding; her
music, her discourse, or some book which she set me to rehearsing to
her. One evening, when preparing to pay her a visit, I received the
following letter from my Bess:--

_To A. Mervyn._

CURLING'S, May 6, 1794.

Where does this letter you promised me stay all this while? Indeed,
Arthur, you torment me more than I deserve, and more than I could ever
find it in my heart to do you. You treat me cruelly. I must say so,
though I offend you. I must write, though you do not deserve that I
should, and though I fear I am in a humour not very fit for writing. I
had better go to my chamber and weep; weep at your--_unkindness_, I was
going to say; but, perhaps, i