Mr. Belford, remember me in the best manner to my cousin
Morden; and desire him to comfort them, and to tell them, that all would
have been the same, had they accepted of my true penitence, as I wish and
as I trust the Almighty has done.

I was called down: it was to Harry, who was just returned from Miss
Howe's, to whom he carried the lady's letter. The stupid fellow being
bid to make haste with it, and return as soon as possible, staid not
until Miss Howe had it, she being at the distance of five minutes,
although Mrs. Howe would have had him stay, and sent a man and horse
purposely with it to her daughter.

WEDNESDAY MORNING, TEN O'CLOCK.

The poor lady is just recovered from a fainting fit, which has left her
at death's door. Her late tranquillity and freedom from pain seemed but
a lightening, as Mrs. Lovick and Mrs. Smith call it.

By my faith, Lovelace, I had rather part with all the friends I have in
the world, than with this lady. I never knew what a virtuous, a holy
friendship, as I may call mine to her, was before. But to be so new to
it, and to be obliged to forego it so soon, what an affliction! Yet,
thank Heaven, I lose her not by my own fault!--But 'twould be barbarous
not to spare thee now.

She has sent for the divine who visited her before, to pray with her.

LETTER LXIX

MR. LOVELACE, TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ.
KENSINGTON, WEDNESDAY NOON.

Like AEsop's traveller, thou blowest hot and cold, life and death, in the
same breath, with a view, no doubt, to distract me. How familiarly dost
thou use the words, dying, dimness, tremor? Never did any mortal ring so
many changes on so few bells. Thy true father, I dare swear, was a
butcher, or an undertaker, by the delight thou seemest to take in scenes
of death and horror. Thy barbarous reflection, that thou losest her not
by thy own fault, is never to be forgiven. Thou hast but one way to
atone for the torments thou hast given me, and that is, by sending me
word that she is better, and will recover. Whether it be true or not,
let me be told so, and I will go abroad rejoicing and believing it, and
my wishes and imaginations shall make out all the rest.

If she live but one year, that I may acquit myself to myself (no matter
for the world!) that her death is not owing to me, I will compound for
the rest.

Will neither vows nor prayers save her? I never prayed in my life, put
all the years of it together, as I have done for this fortnight