The housekeeper entering, to consult her mistress on some domestic occasion, Mrs Morton quitted the room. Mr Francis closed his book, turned round, and gazed earnestly in my face: before sufficiently mortified, his observation, which I felt at this moment oppressive, did not relieve me. I attempted to escape, but, seizing my hand, he detained me by a kind of gentle violence. 'And why this confusion, my dear Miss Courtney; do you blush for having acted with propriety and spirit?' I burst into tears--I could not help it--'How weak is this, how unworthy of the good sense you have just manifested.' 'I confess it, but I feel myself, at this moment, a poor, a friendless, an unprotected being.' 'What prejudices! poverty is neither criminal, nor disgraceful; you will not want friends, while you continue to deserve them; and as for protection,' (and he smiled) 'I had not expected from Emma Courtney's spirited letter to Mr Morton, and equally proper retort to his lady's impertinence, so plaintive, so feminine a complaint.--You have talents, cultivate them, and learn to rest on your own powers.' 'I thank you for your reproof, and solicit your future lessons.' 'Can you bear the truth?' 'Try me.' 'Have you not cherished a false pride?' It is too true, thought I, and I sighed. 'How shall I cure this foible?' 'By self-examination, by resolution, and perseverance.' 'Be to me instead of a conscience.' 'What, then, is become of your own?' 'Prejudice, I doubt, has blinded and warped it.' 'I suspect so; but you have energy and candor, and are not, I hope, of a temper to despond.' The return of the family terminated this singular conversation. The young ladies rallied me, on being found _tête-à-tête_ with the philosopher; Mr Montague, I thought looked displeased. I stole out; while the party were dressing for dinner, and rambled into the gardens, which were extensive, and laid out with taste. CHAPTER XIII I judged my visit here would not be very long. I scarcely knew whether I was most inclined to like or to fear Mr Francis, but I determined, if possible, to cultivate his friendship. I interrogated myself again and again--From whence this restlessness, this languor, this disgust, with all I hear and see?--Why do I feel wayward, querulous, fastidious? Mr Morton's family had no hearts; they appeared to want a _sense_, that preyed incessantly on mine; I could not love them, and my heart panted to expand its sensations.