ot.
That will be the last I'll can tell of myself; you know the lave[26] as
well as I do."

"Will you let me read them, then?" says she.

I told her, _if she would be at the pains_; and she bade me go away and
she would read them from the one end to the other. Now, in this bundle
that I gave her, there were packed together not only all the letters of
my false friend, but one or two of Mr. Campbell's when he was in town at
the Assembly, and to make a complete roll of all that ever was written
to me, Catriona's little word, and the two I had received from Miss
Grant, one when I was on the Bass and one on board that ship. But of
these last I had no particular mind at the moment.

I was in that state of subjection to the thought of my friend that it
mattered not what I did, nor scarce whether I was in her presence or out
of it; I had caught her like some kind of a noble fever that lived
continually in my bosom, by night and by day, and whether I was waking
or asleep. So it befell that after I was come into the fore-part of the
ship where the broad bows splashed into the billows, I was in no such
hurry to return as you might fancy; rather prolonged my absence like a
variety in pleasure. I do not think I am by nature much of an Epicurean;
and there had come till then so small a share of pleasure in my way that
I might be excused perhaps to dwell on it unduly.

When I returned to her again, I had a faint, painful impression as of a
buckle slipped, so coldly she returned the packet.

"You have read them?" said I; and I thought my voice sounded not wholly
natural, for I was turning in my mind for what could ail her.

"Did you mean me to read all?" she asked.

I told her "Yes," with a drooping voice.

"The last of them as well?" said she.

I knew where we were now; yet I would not lie to her either. "I gave
them all without after-thought," I said, "as I supposed that you would
read them. I see no harm in any."

"I will be differently made," said she. "I thank God I am differently
made. It was not a fit letter to be shown me. It was not fit to be
written."

"I think you are speaking of your own friend, Barbara Grant?" said I.

"There will not be anything as bitter as to lose a fancied friend," said
she, quoting my own expression.

"I think it is sometimes the friendship that was fancied!" I cried.
"What kind of justice do you call this, to blame me for some words that
a tomfool of a madcap lass has written down upo