never again have named so unpleasing a subject.

Does your own heart tell you mine will call a settlement here, with
you, an exile? Examine yourself well, and tell me whether your
aversion to staying in Canada is not stronger than your tenderness for
your Rivers.

I am hurt beyond all words at the earnestness with which you press
Mrs. Melmoth to disswade me from staying in this country: you press
with warmth my return to England, though it would put an eternal bar
between us: you give reasons which, though the understanding may
approve, the heart abhors: can ambition come in competition with
tenderness? you fancy yourself generous, when you are only indifferent.
Insensible girl! you know nothing of love.

Write to me instantly, and tell me every emotion of your soul, for I
tremble at the idea that your affection is less lively than mine.

Adieu! I am wretched till I hear from you. Is it possible, my Emily,
you can have ceased to love him, who, as you yourself own, sees no
other object than you in the universe?

Adieu! Yours,
Ed. Rivers.

You know not the heart of your Rivers, if you suppose it capable of
any ambition but that dear one of being beloved by you.

What have you said, my dear Emily? _You will not marry me in
Canada_. You have passed a hard sentence on me: you know my fortune
will not allow me to marry you in England.

END OF VOL. II.

THE HISTORY OF EMILY MONTAGUE.

Vol. III

LETTER 125.

To Colonel Rivers, at Montreal.

Quebec, April 17.

How different, my Rivers, is your last letter from all your Emily
has ever yet received from you! What have I done to deserve such
suspicions? How unjust are your sex in all their connexions with ours!

Do I not know love? and does this reproach come from the man on whom
my heart doats, the man, whom to make happy, I would with transport
cease to live? can you one moment doubt your Emily's tenderness? have
not her eyes, her air, her look, her indiscretion, a thousand times
told you, in spite of herself, the dear secret of her heart, long
before she was conscious of the tenderness of yours?

Did I think only of myself, I could live with you in a desart; all
places, all situations, are equally charming to me, with you: without
you, the whole world affords nothing which could give a moment's
pleasure to your Emily.

Let me but see those eyes in which the tenderest love is painted,
let me but hear that enchanting voice, I