r. But we can't help hoping what we desire so much. Reproach me,
therefore, no more; tell me rather again that you are convinced of my
affection, and promise to love me all your life. I ought to be sure of
it already; but every time you reproach me, I make you repeat the
promise by way of expiating your fault. Good-night, my dear Misis; I
hope you will think of me in your dreams. Why must I say good-night so
far from you?"

Of the same period is the following:--

"From my bed, this Wednesday night.

"What! you scold me in sober truth! You write me a scrap of a letter--in
the coldest, gravest style. Yes--you were sad--I see you were. Do you
fancy that the lecture you gave me makes up for my grief at losing you?
Ah! if I had not recalled your eyes glowing with love, and all our
mutual endearments, I should have been angry with you. How strange that
your very recollection pleads your excuse! Whatever may be your fault,
you have but to show yourself to be forgiven. But do not presume, upon
this confession, to add to your faults. Alas! if ever you deserve a
punishment, its bitterness will all belong to me. Fortune befriended us
when last we met; but don't you find time pass too quickly when we are
together? I have always a thousand things to say to you; it is not,
perhaps, the shortness of the time--it is, that the more I say to you
the more I wish to say. In the same way, the more kisses I give you, the
more I wish to give; all the feelings you inspire are in extremes. How
you ought to love me if you wish your tenderness to equal mine! And
since it is always on the increase, how cruel that we can never give way
to the sentiments we feel, and express them to each other! What pleasure
we are deprived of, dear Misis! why are you not beside the couch where I
am now writing? Our silence alone would be more eloquent than all our
letters. The kisses I would give you would no longer be in dreams,
though my happiness would perhaps make me think it one. Adieu! the more
I think of it, the more I feel the misery of being separated from you.
It is near one o'clock. Are you in bed yet? Think of me!"

This secret correspondence lasted for three years; but, at last, a
letter was opened by a servant, and the secret was discovered by the
Sieur de la Motte, who passed for the Demoiselle de Surcourt's uncle,
and with whom she lived. The Sieur Lebrun had but to whisper marriage,
and all would have been arranged. Under other circumstances