Clifton left me; and, being gone, I went into the parlour. Frank was there. He had a book in his hand, and tears in his eyes. I never beheld a look more melancholy. Capable as he is of resisting the cowardice of self-complaint and gloom, still there are moments, I perceive, in which he can yield; and, sighing over others woes, can cast a retrospective glance on self. He had been reading the Julia of Rousseau. The picture given by St. Preux of his feelings had awakened sympathy too strong to be resisted. We fell into conversation. I wished to turn his thoughts into a more cheerful channel; but my own partook too much of the same medium, not to assimilate themselves in part to his languor. You seem pensive, Frank. What is the subject of your meditations? The sorrows of St. Preux, madam. Then you are among the rocks of Meillerie? Or standing a partaker of the danger of Julia on the dreadful precipice? No, madam. The divine Julia is dead!--[Had you heard the sigh he gave, Louisa--!] I am at a passage which I suspect to be still more sublime. I am sure it is equally heart-rending. Ay!--Which is that? It is Clara, at the table of Wolmar; where the child, with such simplicity, conjures up the infantine but almost perfect semblance of the dead. If ever laughter inspired the horrors of distraction, it was the laugh of Clara! It is a wonderful passage. But I find you were rather contemplating the sorrows of the friend than of the lover. Pardon me, madam. I was considering, since the friend was thus on the very brink of despair, what must be the force of mind which could preserve the lover. Friendship and love, in such minds, are the same. Perhaps so, madam. Can there be any doubt? When the lover and the friend are united, the heart is reluctant to own its feelings can be equalled. Ought you not to avoid such a book, Frank; at least for the present? If it led me into error; otherwise not. I think I know what were the author's mistakes; and he not only teaches but impresses, rivets, volumes of truth in my mind. The recollection of what had just passed with Clifton forced itself upon me, Louisa; it made me desirous of putting a question to Frank on the subject, and I asked-- What is your opinion of promises? I think them superfluous, nugatory, and therefore absurd. Without exception? Yes--We cannot promise to do wrong: or, if we do, cannot perform--Neither can we, without guilt, refrain from doing right; whether we have or have not promised. Some glimpse of this truth, for I perceive it to be one, had shot across my mind; but not with the perspicuity of your proposition--I am inclined to be a rude interrogator: I have another question to ask [He bowed]--I own you are seldom wrong, and yet I hope--[I remember, Louisa, that I gave a deep sigh here; and it must not be concealed]--I hope that you have been wrong, once in your life. Madam!