ment, that _might_ have grown to
something stronger; but 'tis past now. I have shown you all the weakness
of my heart--despise me if you will."

"Dearest Lady Emily, had I the same skill to show the sentiments of
mine, you would there see what I cannot express--how I admire this noble
candour, this generous self-abasement--"

"Oh, as to meanly hiding my faults, that is what I scorn to do. I
may be ignorant of them myself, and in ignorance I may cherish them;
but, once convinced of them, I give them to the winds, and all who
choose may pick them up. Violent and unjust, and self-deceived, I have
been, and may be again; but deceitful I never was, and never will
be."

"My dear cousin, what might you not be if you chose!"

"Ah! I know what you mean, and I begin to think you are in the right;
by-and-bye, I believe, I shall come to be of your way of thinking (if
ever I have a daughter she certainly shall), but not just at present,
the reformation would be too sudden. All that I can promise for at
present is, that 'henceforth I will chide no breather in the world but
myself, against whom I know most faults;' and now, from this day, from
this moment, I vow--"

"No, I shall do it for you," said Mary, with a smile, as she threw her
arms around her neck; "henceforth

'The golden laws of love shall be
Upon this pillar hung;
A simple heart, a single eye,
A true and constant tongue.

'Let no man for more love pretend
Than he has hearts in store;
True love begun shall never end:
Love one, and love no more.'" [1]

[1] "Marquis of Montrose."

But much as Mary loved and admired her cousin, she could not be blind to
the defects of her character, and she feared they might yet be
productive of great unhappiness to herself. Her mind was open to the
reception of every image that brought pleasure along with it; while, in
the same spirit, she turned from everything that wore an air of
seriousness or self-restraint; and even the best affections of a
naturally good heart were borne away by the ardour of her feelings and
the impetuosity of her temper. Mary grieved to see the graces of a noble
mind thus running wild for want of early culture; and she sought by
every means, save those of lecture and admonition to lead her to more
fixed habits of reflection and self examination.

But it required all her strength of mind to turn her thoughts at this
time from herself to another--she, the betrothed of one w