to find by your last letter, that Captain Harvey was a man of so deceitful a mind. Certainly, as you say, it will be no difficult task to renounce a person of this inconstant temper; and the spirit with which you speak of his conduct, testifies that you have already advanced a great way towards estimating him as he deserves. Oh how I wish you were as happy as I am, and that such another as St. Aubyn, were in reserve for you. He improves upon me every day and every hour-and all that I am afraid of is, that he should see how dear he is to me; for you know, Augusta, till he has declared his attachment, it would be very improper that he should even guess at mine. But what will become of me when he has declared it? Only think of papa, and my aunt, and every body that belongs to me. But I cannot bear to think of it. I think only of the present hour-the dear the real present. I know that he is near me— and that, when we are separated, we shall shortly meet again-we are within reach of each other. Tomorrow will be another happy day, I say to myself, when I retire for the night-for to-morrow I shall see him again. Surely, Augusta, this is too delightful to last! I must be ill, or die-ah! it will be worse than that I shall live to contend and be contended with-terribly, cruelly contended with, before I shall be permitted to look upon St. Aubyn as my husband, St. Aubyn my husband!-ah, what words are those, and with what confidence am I repeating them, as if the fact were sure, and he has never uttered such a thought. Oh if he should not have such a thought! -what will become of me! But I think, Augusta, I could stake my existence upon the certainty of his loving me. It was only last night, when they were

all set down to cards, I stole through the viranda into the lawn. I did just look round the room, only to see where he was; for I could not have gone out if his attention had been fixed upon me, as he might have thought I wished him to follow me; and I should not have liked him to have thought that, you know. But he was looking over music at the pianoforte, and never saw me, and so I went. But though I would not for the world that he should think I wished him to join me, I knew he would do so. I knew that he would soon miss me; and I knew, also, that he would soon find me. What a curious thing this kind of affection is! It seems as if there were an instinct between two people, which prompts them to know the very thoughts of each other. But I am moralising, which I know you do not like. I have acquired a habit of that lately. Indeed, I have wondered very much, since I felt attached, that so many bitter and severe things have been said to the disadvantage of love. If I know any thing of myself, there is not a faculty of my mind, nor a disposition of my heart, which is not the better for it. The happiness it inspires, makes me pleased with every body, and I want to see them as delighted as myself. I want every body to be happy-indeed, I wonder how any body here can be otherwise, when St. Aubyn is at hand, and they can see and speak to him. But what was I going to tell you, Augusta? My mind is sadly wandering such a crowd of thoughts come rushing upon it but you must forgive me; for I have no one to speak to but you, and when I begin I say every thing that comes uppermost. Oh! I was going to tell you about last night. We had such a delightful walk! for he soon joined me in my ramble. It was

just such a night as Shakspeare has described in the Merchant of Venice, and, if you recollect the part I allude to, you will not wish me to say more in its praise. But as I know you have no great taste for the romantic, I will not tire you with telling what I felt, as I stole along amidst the sweet shrubs and flowers, all looking so lovely in the pale moonlight, and hung upon St. Aubyn's arm, sometimes talking, but more often silent; for I had thoughts which could not express themselves in words, but rather found a vent in tears. Yet tears so delicious, that never have I known a bliss so exquisite as while they were stealing down my cheeks. It was St. Aubyn's tenderness that made me weep. Oh! he has the softest, the gentlest of minds. I told you in my last that he had constituted himself my tutor, and in that capacity he has lent me many sweet books to read, and then we talk them over, and we did so last night. We were speaking of Milton, which he wished me rather to study than merely peruse; and he began to repeat to me the Penseroso, after having hinted, though very delicately (as its owners are relations of mine,) at the insipid manner in which time passed in the house we at present inhabit,

"But hail, thou goddess, sage and holy;

Hail, divinest Melancholy!

Whose saintly visage is too bright

To hit the sense of human sight,"

he repeated, raising his fine, expressive eyes as he spoke, and looking so in unison with the words he uttered! Oh, Augusta, such a thought came across me at that moment! I cannot put it into words, it was so vague and indistinct; but it suggested to me

the idea of St. Aubyn's death, and our everlasting separation; and how, or why, or wherefore, I cannot tell, but something within me prompted a supplication, that we might never be disunited in this world, or the next, and I internally ejaculated these few words, Save him-save us both.' And while all this was passing in my mind, I was constrained to hide my face with my hand, to conceal the strange agitation I felt; but it soon passed away with a heavy sigh, and a few silent tears; and St. Aubyn did not observe it, and I was again very happy. He went on repeating to me the greater part both of L'Allegro and Il Penseroso, stopping every now and then, and looking under my hat, to see how he affected or pleased me; and when he perceived either the smile or tear, it seemed so to gratify him! only that once or twice he sighed, and uttered something like a fear for me. Once he said, on discovering me very near to sobbing, If disappointment, or sorrow of any kind should be your fate, ah! what a heart it would have to work upon!"

"But who would disappoint you?" he continued, after a short silence; Who could grieve you?'

"Oh, Augusta, was I wrong in my answer!Tell me yet don't-oh don't tell me for I know that I was wrong; but had I been to die for uttering them, I could not have restrained the words which sprung from my heart to my lips, when he so sweetly, so feelingly, articulated the inquiry, Who could grieve you?'

"Not you,' I said, 'you never could or would.' Never! he exclaimed with energy, never, while God grants me life or reason.'

"He had yet more to say; I know that he had yet

much more to say; for he took my hand, and he uttered my name Catherine!" he said; but, ere he could utter another word, I heard myself loudly called for, by some one approaching, and I hurried on towards the house.

"We were met almost immediately by Lady Vincent, who, for the first time, I believe, suspected that there was some endearing connexion between us. I will not add here, in contrast to what I have already said, the unpleasant scene I underwent with her in private upon the subject; but briefly tell you that I braved all her indignation, and kept my own counsel, and acknowledged nothing; and, finally, went to my own room, and forgot every thing but what related to St. Aubyn and to happiness. Farewell, Augusta, you shall soon hear again from

"Your most affectionate

“CATHERINE."

That, after a month of intimate intercourse with a very young woman, whose affections he had won, a man of strict honour should speedily approach to some decision, was a measure to be expected. Accordingly, in a very few days after the preceding letter had been dispatched by Catherine to her confidante, we find St. Aubyn unbosoming himself to his particular friend; which narration will pretty nearly conclude all we have to say on this part of our story.

"You will scarcely be able to remember, my dear F, a silly sort of adventure which Harvey and I fell into with two girls at Mrs. Vernon's boarding school. You heard his account of the matter, and you may recollect, if you can recall to mind any