nderly pleaded. The family of Valancourt, if not
his circumstances, had been known to her father, and known to be
unexceptionable. Of his circumstances, Valancourt himself hinted as far
as delicacy would permit, when he said he had at present little else to
offer but an heart, that adored her. He had solicited only for a distant
hope, and she could not resolve to forbid, though she scarcely dared to
permit it; at length, she acquired courage to say, that she must think
herself honoured by the good opinion of any person, whom her father had
esteemed.

'And was I, then, thought worthy of his esteem?' said Valancourt, in
a voice trembling with anxiety; then checking himself, he added, 'But
pardon the question; I scarcely know what I say. If I might dare to
hope, that you think me not unworthy such honour, and might be permitted
sometimes to enquire after your health, I should now leave you with
comparative tranquillity.'

Emily, after a moment's silence, said, 'I will be ingenuous with you,
for I know you will understand, and allow for my situation; you will
consider it as a proof of my--my esteem that I am so. Though I live
here in what was my father's house, I live here alone. I have, alas! no
longer a parent--a parent, whose presence might sanction your visits.
It is unnecessary for me to point out the impropriety of my receiving
them.'

'Nor will I affect to be insensible of this,' replied Valancourt, adding
mournfully--'but what is to console me for my candour? I distress you,
and would now leave the subject, if I might carry with me a hope of
being some time permitted to renew it, of being allowed to make myself
known to your family.'

Emily was again confused, and again hesitated what to reply; she felt
most acutely the difficulty--the forlornness of her situation, which did
not allow her a single relative, or friend, to whom she could turn
for even a look, that might support and guide her in the present
embarrassing circumstances. Madame Cheron, who was her only relative,
and ought to have been this friend, was either occupied by her own
amusements, or so resentful of the reluctance her niece had shewn to
quit La Vallee, that she seemed totally to have abandoned her.

'Ah! I see,' said Valancourt, after a long pause, during which Emily had
begun, and left unfinished two or three sentences, 'I see that I have
nothing to hope; my fears were too just, you think me unworthy of your
esteem. That fatal journey! whi