"Would my presence have added to your felicity, Alida?" "You never came an unwelcome visiter here." "Perhaps I might be sometimes intrusive when Bonville is your guest." "I have supposed you were on friendly terms," said she. "We are, but there are seasons when friendship must yield its pretensions to a superior claim." "Will you answer me one question, Alida, are you engaged to Bonville?" "He has asked me the same question concerning you," replied she, (blushing.) "Do you," continued Theodore, "prefer him to any other?" Alida, (blushing deeply.) "He has made the same inquiries respecting you." "I beg, madam, you will deal with me candidly," said Theodore, (taking her hand with anxiety.) "I am entitled to no claims, but you know what my heart would ask. I will bow to your decision. Bonville or Theodore must relinquish their pretensions. We cannot share the blessing." The cheeks of Alida were suffused with a varying glow, her lips were pale, her voice tremulous, and her eyes cast down. "My father has informed me," she said, "that it is improper to receive the particular addresses of more than one. I am conscious of my inadvertency, and that the reproof is just. One, therefore, must be dismissed." But, (she blushed deeper,) and a considerable pause ensued. At length Theodore arose. "I will not press you further," said he. "I know the delicacy of your feelings; I know your sincerity; I will not therefore insist on your performing the painful task of deciding against me. Your conduct in every point of view has been discreet. I would have no just claims, or if I had, your heart must sanction them, or they would be unhallowed, and unjustifiable. I shall ever pray for your felicity. Our affections are not under our direction; our happiness depends on our obedience to their mandates. Whatever, then, may be my sufferings, you are unblameable, and irreproachable." He took his hat in extreme agitation, and prepared himself to take leave. Alida had recovered in some degree from her embarrassment, and collected her scattered spirits. "Your conduct, Theodore," said she, "is generous and noble. Will you give yourself the trouble, and do me the honour to see me once more?" "I will," said he, "at any time you shall appoint." "Four weeks, then," said she, "from this day, honour me with a visit, and you shall have my decision, and receive my final answer." "I will be punctual to the day," he replied, and bade her adieu. Theodore's hours from this time winged heavily away. His wonted cheerfulness fled; he wooed the silent and solitary haunts of musing, moping melancholy. He loved to wander through lonely fields, when dewy twilight robed the evening mild, or to trace the forest glen, through which the moon darted her silvery intercepted rays. His agitated thoughts preyed upon his peace incessantly, and deeply disturbed his repose.