tion the great end of my being.
When with her, I thought not of myself. I had scarcely a separate or
independent existence, since my senses were occupied by her, and my mind
was full of those ideas which her discourse communicated. To meditate on
her looks and words, and to pursue the means suggested by my own
thoughts, or by her, conducive, in any way, to her good, was all my
business.

"What a fate," said I, at the conclusion of one of our interviews, "has
been yours! But, thank Heaven, the storm has disappeared before the age
of sensibility has gone past, and without drying up every source of
happiness. You are still young; all your powers unimpaired; rich in the
compassion and esteem of the world; wholly independent of the claims and
caprices of others; amply supplied with that means of usefulness,
called money; wise in that experience which only adversity can give.
Past evils and sufferings, if incurred and endured without guilt, if
called to view without remorse, make up the materials of present joy.
They cheer our most dreary hours with the widespread accents of 'well
done,' and they heighten our pleasures into somewhat of celestial
brilliancy, by furnishing a deep, a ruefully-deep, contrast.

"From this moment, I will cease to weep for you. I will call you the
happiest of women. I will share with you your happiness by witnessing
it; but that shall not content me. I must some way contribute to it.
Tell me how I shall serve you. What can I do to make you happier? Poor
am I in every thing but zeal, but still I may do something. What--pray
tell me, what can I do?"

She looked at me with sweet and solemn significance. What it was exactly
I could not divine, yet I was strangely affected by it. It was but a
glance, instantly withdrawn. She made me no answer.

"You must not be silent; you _must_ tell me what I can do for you.
Hitherto I have done nothing. All the service is on your side. Your
conversation has been my study, a delightful study, but the profit has
only been mine. Tell me how I can be grateful: my voice and manner, I
believe, seldom belie my feelings." At this time, I had almost done what
a second thought made me suspect to be unauthorized. Yet I cannot tell
why. My heart had nothing in it but reverence and admiration. Was she
not the substitute of my lost mamma? Would I not have clasped that
beloved shade? Yet the two beings were not just the same, or I should
not, as now, have checked myself, and onl