nd, unable
to restrain them, she hid her face with both her hands; these tears
relieved her, (she had before had a difficulty in breathing,) and she
sat down by him more composed than she had appeared since Ann's death;
but her conversation was incoherent.

She called herself "a poor disconsolate creature!"--"Mine is a selfish
grief," she exclaimed--"Yet; Heaven is my witness, I do not wish her
back now she has reached those peaceful mansions, where the weary rest.
Her pure spirit is happy; but what a wretch am I!"

Henry forgot his cautious reserve. "Would you allow me to call you
friend?" said he in a hesitating voice. "I feel, dear girl, the tendered
interest in whatever concerns thee." His eyes spoke the rest. They were
both silent a few moments; then Henry resumed the conversation. "I have
also been acquainted with grief! I mourn the loss of a woman who was not
worthy of my regard. Let me give thee some account of the man who now
solicits thy friendship; and who, from motives of the purest
benevolence, wishes to give comfort to thy wounded heart."

"I have myself," said he, mournfully, "shaken hands with happiness, and
am dead to the world; I wait patiently for my dissolution; but, for
thee, Mary, there may be many bright days in store."

"Impossible," replied she, in a peevish tone, as if he had insulted her
by the supposition; her feelings were so much in unison with his, that
she was in love with misery.

He smiled at her impatience, and went on. "My father died before I knew
him, and my mother was so attached to my eldest brother, that she took
very little pains to fit me for the profession to which I was destined:
and, may I tell thee, I left my family, and, in many different stations,
rambled about the world; saw mankind in every rank of life; and, in
order to be independent, exerted those talents Nature has given me:
these exertions improved my understanding; and the miseries I was
witness to, gave a keener edge to my sensibility. My constitution is
naturally weak; and, perhaps, two or three lingering disorders in my
youth, first gave me a habit of reflecting, and enabled me to obtain
some dominion over my passions. At least," added he, stifling a sigh,
"over the violent ones, though I fear, refinement and reflection only
renders the tender ones more tyrannic.

"I have told you already I have been in love, and disappointed--the
object is now no more; let her faults sleep with her! Yet this passion
has