Here am I, ever-honour'd lady, forty miles on the road to that beloved spot, where, for nineteen years, my tranquility was uninterrupted.--Will a serene sky always hang over me?--It will be presumption to suppose it,--when thousands, perhaps, endowed with virtues the most god-like, have nothing on which they can look _back_ but dark clouds,--nothing to which they can look _forward_ but gathering storms.--Am I a bark only fit to sail in fair weather?--Shall I not prepare to meet the waves of disappointment? How does my heart bear,--how throb,--to give up follies which dare not hide themselves where a passage is made _by_ generosity, _by_ affection unbounded.--Yes, my dear Lady, this is the only moment I do not regret being absent from you;--for could my tongue relate what my pen trembles to discover?--No! Behold _me_ at your Ladyship's feet!--behold _me_ a supplicant suing for my returning peace!--_You_ only, can restore it.--Command that I give up my preference for Lord Darcey, and the intruder is banished from my heart:--_then_ shall I no more labour to deceive myself:--_then_ shall I no more blindly exchange certain peace for doubtful happiness,--a _quiet_ for a _restless_ mind.--Humility has not fled me;--my heart has not fallen a sacrifice to title, pomp, or splendor.--Yet, has it not foolishly, unasked, given itself up?--Ah! my Lady, not entirely unask'd neither; or, why, from the first moment, have I seen him shew _such_ tender, _such_ respectful assiduities?--why _so_ ardently solicit to attend me into Oxfordshire?--why ask, if I refused my hand in the same peremptory manner, what would become of the man who without it was lost to the whole world?--But am I not too vain?--Why should this man be Lord Darcey?--Rather one rising to his imagination, who he might possibly suppose was entrapped by my girlish years.--A few, a very _few_ weeks, and I am gone from him forever.--If your Ladyship's goodness can pardon the confession I have made, no errors will I again commit of the kind which now lies blushing before you. Next to your Ladyship Mr. Jenkings is the best friend I have on earth.--He _never_ has suspected, or _now_ quite forgets his suspicions.--Not all my entreaties could prevent him from taking this long journey with me.--His age, his connections, his business, every thing is made subservient to my convenience--Whilst I write he is below, and has just sent up to know if I will permit a gentleman of his acquaintance, whom he has met accidentally at this inn, to dine with us.--Why does he use this ceremony?--I can have no objection to any friend of _his_.--Dinner is served up.--I shall write again at our last stage this evening. _From the Mitre at ----_. Past twelve at night!--An hour I used to think the most silent of any:--but _here_ so much the reverse, one reasonably may suppose the inhabitants, or guests, have mistaken midnight for mid-day. I will ring and enquire, why all this noise?