So my aunt came to see me, and she begged my pardon. I was moved by this unexpected concession; but I answered that I was determined, for her honour, as much as my own safety, to leave her, and seek my bread elsewhere. She _implored me_, Miss Cowley, to conceal her '_disgrace_,' (I use her own words) and promised that in future I should have no cause to complain of her want of kindness. 'My mother,' said I, 'gave with her dying breath an injunction to those about her to teach me to _forget injuries_; I am her child, and you may, at your pleasure, make me yours. Treat me with kindness and I must be grateful, for I am a _Howard_; and rest assured that my uncle shall never know how unworthily I have been treated.' She seemed surprised at my spirit; I saw, Miss Cowley, that she was so; and I told her plainly that I was not made for her spaniel. 'You may, Madam,' said I, 'wonder at this language from one who, hitherto, has not dared to assert her claims to your protection. These have never had a view beyond the shelter my youth made necessary. Give me time and instructions, and turn me out on the world; my principles will then secure me, and my industry shall provide for me.' She wept, and all was made up. Nothing could be more kind than she was. Now only think of the mischief my unlucky fainting has produced, and pity me!" No language, my Lucy, which I could have employed, would so powerfully have roused you to indignation, as that I have used; and if you can command your feelings, whilst reading the account of this poor girl's sufferings, I must conclude, that the only means of awakening your torpid powers, will be to send the artless narrator to you. When you behold her feminine weakness, listen to her sweet voice, and view her pleading innocence of aspect, you will acquit Rachel Cowley of being vindictive. Till this time arrives, I shall hate Miss Flint with all possible cordiality. I was not in the humour to say any thing in the pathetic style; poor Mary's tears of "gratitude," as she called them, having excited mine, it became necessary to change my tone. "Methinks," observed I, "that my young sister looks somewhat shabby this morning; have they not sent you your cloaths?"--"Oh yes" replied she, "Mrs Warner took care of that business." "It was not a fatiguing one, I presume," said I; "a sheet of brown paper I suppose contained your wardrobe." She laughed. "Not altogether," said she; "though to say the truth, it did not fill a waggon."--"It is no matter," answered I, "we have done, Mary, with the _rags of unfeeling tyranny_; you are now mine, and must appear like mine." She again clung to my bosom, and I heard her say softly, "May this reach Heaven! and my mother!"