It was impossible to refuse. I went to my papers, and brought it. The evil spirit of thoughtlessness possessed me, and when I delivered it I asked--Is there any thing else?-- Your kindness, madam, said he, is unalterable. Could I?--Durst I--? What?-- He paused-- Speak!-- He laid the song upon the music-desk, and looked----No no--I will not attempt to tell you how! Words were needless; they could not petition with such eloquence--A barbarian could not have refused. I rambled over the keys, hemmed, and endeavoured to collect myself. At last a sense of propriety, of reason, of principle, came to my aid, and bade me be master of my mind. I began to sing, but no effort could enable me to give that expression of which I had before found the words so susceptible. Could you think it, Louisa? Do you now foresee, do you forebode what happened?--Your brother came in!-- To have stopped, to have used evasion, to have had recourse to falsehood would have turned an act of virtue into contemptible vice. I continued. Clifton came and looked over my shoulder. The music was on one sheet of paper, the words were on another, in the writing of Frank. Your brother knew the hand. When I had ended, Frank took both the papers, thanked me, and retired. I could perceive the eyes of Clifton sparkle with emotion; I might almost say rage. He would have spoken, but could not; and I knew not how safely to begin. At length, a consciousness of not having done or at least intended to do wrong gave me courage. I determined not to wait to be questioned: I asked him how he liked the song. Oh! Exceedingly!--It was very fine!--Very fine! The words are Mr. Henley's. I imagined as much, madam. I thought them expressive, and amused myself with putting a tune to them. I am as good as a witch! How did you like the subject? What subject, madam? Of the words. I really don't know--I have forgotten-- Nay, you said you thought them very fine! Oh! Yes!--True!--Very fine!--All about love--I recollect. Well, and having so much faith in love, you do not think them the worse for that. Oh, by no means!--But I thought you had. Love in a song may be pardonable. Especially, madam, if the song be written by Mr. Henley. Clifton!--You almost teach me to despair!--You do not know me!--Perhaps however I am more to blame than you, at present. Timidity has given me some appearance of conscious guilt, which my heart disavows. But, as there is scarcely any error more dangerous to felicity than suspicion, I own I am sorry to see you so frequently its slave. Never think of that woman for a wife, in whom you cannot confide. And ask yourself whether I ought to marry a man who cannot discover that I merit his confidence? I find, indeed, implicit faith to be as necessary in love as in religion--But you know your power, madam. An indifferent spectator would rather say you know yours. You will not go, madam, and leave me thus? I must. In this misery?