Leave to time the discussion of a subject of which you are at present disqualified to judge. Horace, like yourself, is young, I advise you to avoid entering into any engagements with him till more acquaintance with life shall have decided his character and rendered you a better judge of his merit. Remember also, that should you persist in cherishing the sentiments you now entertain of this young man, that you cannot give to your friends any apology for your preference more ostensible, than that of placing no temptation in the way of his integrity. It will be the only wealth he can bring to the account of yours; and although many will say it is nothing in the scale they judge by, _some_ will be candid enough to confess, that virtue knows no inequality of condition. But let me say yet a few words more,” added he; “and think you are listening to your _mother_, to that being who trained you to be what you are.”—He paused for a moment.—“She would tell you, my dear Rachel, that there is no period of a young woman’s life, in which she is less qualified to judge for her own happiness, than the one in which you are at present. You are under an influence which renders your judgment weak. Unacquainted with vice, and with all the affections of nature and innocence glowing in your bosom, you give to imagination an office with which it ought never to be trusted; and to the lover it selects the qualities of your own pure heart. For a time, this delusion passes; but what is often the conclusion? Sometimes, a too late conviction that what had been cherished as a supreme _good_, is a certain _ruin_; and still as frequently, that what had been called a permanent affection, is discovered to be nothing more than a flight of youthful inclination. I may surprise you by saying, that, without any imputation on your principles, or degradation of your understanding, you may cease to love Horace Hardcastle.” “Never!” exclaimed the impatient Miss Cowley. “We are not the children of folly, nor the slaves of passion! Read that letter which I received from your son, and then judge of the basis on which our hopes rest. I have promised Horace to respect his father’s honour, and to preserve his, and I will never write to him till I have your consent.” “I am satisfied,” answered Mr. Hardcastle, hastily rising to quit the room. “Oh hear me!” cried Miss Cowley; detaining him by his clothes: “as a _sister_, as to my _early friend_, surely now and then I may be indulged.” “You shall want no information of his safety,” answered the retreating Mr. Hardcastle, interrupting her and instantly retiring. “Inflexible man!” said she, bursting into tears. “Ah, would to Heaven that mother to whom he referred, lived to confute his arguments! She only knew Rachel Cowley—she only knew her Horace.”