I blushed for having uttered so improper, so selfish, a remark; and endeavoured to atone for it by forgetting the perils of my own situation, in attention to that of this ardent, but affectionate, young man.--His sufferings were acute and violent for some days, during which he quitted me only at the hours of repose--I devoted myself to sooth and console him. I felt, that I had been greatly indebted to his friendship and kindness, and I endeavoured to repay the obligation. He appeared fully sensible of my cares, and, mingled with his acknowledgments expressions of a tenderness, so lively, and unequivocal, as obliged me, once more, to be more guarded in my behaviour. In consideration for the situation of Mr Montague--I had forgotten the paragraph in the paper, till an accidental intelligence of the bankruptcy of the house, in which my little fortune was entrusted, confirmed to me the certainty of this terrible blow. Montague was sitting with me when I received the unwelcome news. 'Gracious God!' I exclaimed, clasping my hands, and raising my eyes to heaven--'What is to become of me now?--The measure of my sorrows is filled up!' It was some time before I had power to explain the circumstances to my companion. 'Do not distress yourself, my lovely Emma,' said he; 'I will be your friend--your guardian--' (and he added, in a low, yet fervent, accent) --'_your husband_!' 'No--no--no!' answered I, shaking my head, 'that must not, cannot, be! I would perish, rather than take advantage of a generosity like yours. I will go to service--I will work for my bread--and, if I cannot procure a wretched sustenance--_I can but die_! Life, to me, has long been worthless!' My countenance, my voice, my manner, but too forcibly expressed the keen anguish of my soul. I seemed to be marked out for the victim of a merciless destiny--_for the child of sorrow_! The susceptible temper of Montague, softened by his own affliction, was moved by my distress. He repeated, and enforced, his proposal, with all the ardour of a youthful, a warm, an uncorrupted, mind. 'You add to my distress,' replied I. 'I have not a heart to bestow--I lavished mine upon one, who scorned and contemned it. Its sensibility is now exhausted. Shall I reward a faithful and generous tenderness, like yours, with a cold, a worthless, an alienated, mind? No, no!--Seek an object more worthy of you, and leave me to my fate.' At that moment, I had forgotten the report of his engagement with Miss Morton; but, on his persisting, vehemently, to urge his suit, I recollected, and immediately mentioned, it, to him. He confessed--