I sent for my babe from the house of the nurse, to whose care it had been confided during my illness, and placed the little Augustus in its stead. 'It is unnecessary, my friend, to say, that you were that lovely and interesting child.--Oh! with what emotion did I receive, and press, you to my care-worn bosom; retracing in your smiling countenance the features of your unfortunate father! Adopting you for my own, I divided my affection between you and my Emma. Scarce a day passed that I did not visit the cottage of your nurse. I taught you to call me by the endearing name of _mother_! I delighted to see you caress my infant with fraternal tenderness--I endeavoured to cherish this growing affection, and found a sweet relief from my sorrows in these tender, maternal, cares.' CHAPTER XXIII My health being considerably injured, I had taken a young woman into my house, to assist me in the nursery, and in other domestic offices. She was in her eighteenth year--simple, modest, and innocent. This girl had resided with me for some months. I had been kind to her, and she seemed attached to me. One morning, going suddenly into Mr Montague's dressing-room, I surprised Rachel sitting on a sopha with her master:--he held her hand in his, while his arm was thrown round her waist; and they appeared to be engaged in earnest conversation. They both started, on my entrance:--Unwilling to encrease their confusion, I quitted the room. Montague, on our meeting at dinner, affected an air of unconcern; but there was an apparent constraint in his behaviour. I preserved towards him my accustomed manner, till the servants had withdrawn. I then mildly expostulated with him on the impropriety of his behaviour. His replies were not more unkind than ungenerous--they pierced my heart. 'It is well, sir, I am inured to suffering; but it is not of _myself_ that I would speak. I have not deserved to lose your confidence--this is my consolation;--yet, I submit to it:--but I cannot see you act in a manner, that will probably involve you in vexation, and intail upon you remorse, without warning you of your danger. Should you corrupt the innocence of this girl, she is emphatically _ruined_. It is the strong mind only, that, firmly resting on its own powers, can sustain and recover itself amidst the world's scorn and injustice. The morality of an uncultivated understanding, is that of _custom_, not of reason: break down the feeble barrier, and there is nothing to supply its place--you open the flood-gates of infamy and wretchedness. Who can say where the evil may stop?' 'You are at liberty to discharge your servant, when you please, madam.' 'I think it my duty to do so, Mr Montague--not on my own, but on _her_, account. If I have no claim upon your affection and principles, I would disdain to watch your conduct. But I feel myself attached to this young woman, and would wish to preserve her from destruction!'