“Poor thing,” said he, while the rigour of his countenance was softened into the gentlest commiseration, “so young!--looking, too, so innocent--'tis hard!--And is nothing left thee? no small remaining hope, to cheat, humanely cheat thy yet not wholly extinguished credulity?” Cecilia wept without answering. “Let me not,” said he, “waste my compassion upon nothing; compassion is with me no effusion of affectation; tell me, then, if thou deservest it, or if thy misfortunes are imaginary, and thy grief is factitious?” “Factitious,” repeated she, “Good heaven!” “Answer me, then, these questions, in which I shall comprise the only calamities for which sorrow has no controul, or none from human motives. Tell me, then, have you lost by death the friend of your bosom?” “No!” “Is your fortune dissipated by extravagance, and your power of relieving the distressed at an end?” “No; the power and the will are I hope equally undiminished.” “O then, unhappy girl! have you been guilty of some vice, and hangs remorse thus heavy on your conscience?” “No, no; thank heaven, to that misery, at least, I am a stranger!” His countenance now again resumed its severity, and, in the sternest manner, “Whence then,” he said, “these tears? and what is this caprice you dignify with the name of sorrow?--strange wantonness of indolence and luxury! perverse repining of ungrateful plenitude!--oh hadst thou known what _I_ have suffered!”-- “Could I lessen what you have suffered,” said Cecilia, “I should sincerely rejoice; but heavy indeed must be your affliction, if mine in its comparison deserves to be styled caprice!” “Caprice!” repeated he, “'tis joy! 'tis extacy compared with mine!--Thou hast not in licentiousness wasted thy inheritance! thou hast not by remorse barred each avenue to enjoyment! nor yet has the cold grave seized the beloved of thy soul!” “Neither,” said Cecilia, “I hope, are the evils you have yourself sustained so irremediable?” “Yes, I have borne them all!--_have_ borne? I bear them still; I shall bear them while I breathe! I may rue them, perhaps, yet longer.” “Good God!” cried Cecilia, shrinking, “what a world is this! how full of woe and wickedness!” “Yet thou, too, canst complain,” cried he, “though happy in life's only blessing, Innocence! thou, too, canst murmur, though stranger to death's only terror, Sin! Oh yet if thy sorrow is unpolluted with guilt, be regardless of all else, and rejoice in thy destiny!” “But who,” cried she, deeply sighing, “shall teach me such a lesson of joy, when all within rises to oppose it?” “I,” cried he, “will teach it thee, for I will tell thee my own sad story. Then wilt thou find how much happier is thy lot, then wilt thou raise thy head in thankful triumph.” “O no! triumph comes not so lightly! yet if you will venture to trust me with some account of yourself, I shall be glad to hear it, and much obliged by the communication.”