not use to be cruel. You used to say, you
loved me. I am in calamity, my dear. I know I am miserable. At times I
know I am; and then I am grieved at my heart, and think how happy every
one is, but me: but then, again, I ail nothing, and am well. But do love
me, Laurana: I am in calamity, my dear. I would love you, if you were in
calamity: indeed I would.--Ah, Laurana! What is become of all your fine
promises? But then every body loved me, and I was happy!--Yet you tell
me, it is all for my good. Naughty Laurana, to wound my heart by your
crossness, and then say, it is for my good!--Do you think I should have
served you so?

Laurana blushed, and wept. Her aunt promised her, that every body would
love her, and comfort her, and not be angry with her, if she would make
her heart easy.

I am very particular, my dear Grandison. I know you love I should be so.
From this minuteness, you will judge of the workings of her mind. They
are resolved to take your advice, (it was very seasonable,) and treat her
with indulgence. The count is earnest to have it so.

***

Camilla has just left me. She says, that her young lady had a tolerable
night. She thinks it owing, in a great measure, to her being indulged in
asking the servants, who saw you depart, how you looked; and being
satisfied that you went away unhurt, and unaffronted.

Adieu, my dearest, my best friend. Let me hear from you, as often as you
can.

***

I just now understand from Camilla, that the dear girl has made an
earnest request to my father, mother, and aunt; and been refused. She
came back from them deeply afflicted; and, as Camilla fears, is going
into one of her gloomy fits again. I hope to write again, if you depart
not from Bologna before to-morrow: but I must, for my own sake, write
shorter letters. Yet how can I? Since, however melancholy the subject,
when I am writing to you, I am conversing with you. My dear Grandison,
once more adieu.

O Lucy, my dear! Whence come all the tears this melancholy story has
cost me? I cannot dwell upon the scenes!--Begone, all those wishes that
would interfere with the interest of that sweet distressed saint at
Bologna!

How impolitic, Lucy, was it in them, not to gratify her impatience to see
him! She would, most probably, have been quieted in her mind, if she had
been obliged by one other interview.

What a delicacy, my dear, what a generosity, is there in her love!

Sir Charles, in Lord L----'s study,