hed with love. See how it shows itself in the tender and inimitable
strain of this epistle. Does not this sweet ingenuousness bewitch you?"

"It does so, and I love, beyond expression, the sweet girl; but my love
is, in some inconceivable way, different from the passion which that
_other_ creature will produce. She is no stranger to my thoughts. I will
impart every thought over and over to her. I question not but I shall
make her happy without forfeiting my own."

"Would marriage with her be a forfeiture of your happiness?"

"Not absolutely or forever, I believe. I love her company. Her absence
for a long time is irksome. I cannot express the delight with which I
see and hear her. To mark her features, beaming with vivacity; playful
in her pleasures; to hold her in my arms, and listen to her prattle,
always musically voluble, always sweetly tender, or artlessly
intelligent--and this you will say is the dearest privilege of marriage;
and so it is; and dearly should I prize it; and yet, I fear my heart
would droop as often as that _other_ image should occur to my fancy. For
then, you know, it would occur as something never to be possessed by me.

"Now, this image might, indeed, seldom occur. The intervals, at least,
would be serene. It would be my interest to prolong these intervals as
much as possible, and my endeavours to this end would, no doubt, have
some effect. Besides, the bitterness of this reflection would be
lessened by contemplating, at the same time, the happiness of my beloved
girl.

"I should likewise have to remember, that to continue unmarried would
not necessarily secure me the possession of the _other_ good----"

"But these reflections, my friend," (broke she in upon me,) "are of as
much force to induce you to marry, as to reconcile you to a marriage
already contracted."

"Perhaps they are. Assuredly, I have not a hope that the _fancied_
excellence will ever be mine. Such happiness is not the lot of humanity,
and is, least of all, within my reach."

"Your diffidence," replied my friend, in a timorous accent, "has not
many examples; but your character, without doubt, is all your own,
possessing all and disclaiming all,--is, in few words, your picture."

"I scarcely understand you. Do you think I ever shall be happy to that
degree which I have imagined? Think you I shall ever meet with an exact
copy of _yourself_?"

"Unfortunate you will be, if you do not meet with many better. Your
Bess, in per