“What can make you so much afraid of me, my sweet girl?” “I am not afraid of you--but--of myself,” said Virginia, sighing. Mrs. Ormond read the following passage: “She thought of Paul’s friendship, more pure than the waters of the fountain, stronger than the united palms, and sweeter than the perfume of flowers; and these images, in night and in solitude, gave double force to the passion which she nourished in her heart. She suddenly left the dangerous shades, and went to her mother, to seek protection against herself. She wished to reveal her distress to her; she pressed her hands, and the name of Paul was on her lips; but the oppression of her heart took away all utterance, and, laying her head upon her mother’s bosom, she only wept.” “And am I not a mother to you, my beloved Virginia?” said Mrs. Ormond. “Though I cannot express my affection in such charming language as this, yet, believe me, no mother was ever fonder of a child.” Virginia threw her arms round Mrs. Ormond, and laid her head upon her friend’s bosom, as if she wished to realize the illusion, and to be the Virginia of whom she had been reading. “I know all you think, and all you feel: I know,” whispered Mrs. Ormond, “the name that is on _your_ lips.” “No, indeed, you do not; you cannot,” cried Virginia, suddenly raising her head, and looking up in Mrs. Ormond’s face, with surprise and timidity: “how could you possibly know _all_ my thoughts and feelings? I never told them to you; for, indeed, I have only confused ideas floating in my imagination from the books I have been reading. I do not distinctly know my own feelings.” “This is all very natural, and a proof of your perfect innocence and simplicity, my child. But why did the passage you were reading just now strike you so much?” “I was only considering,” said Virginia, “whether it was the description of--love.” “And your heart told you that it was?” “I don’t know,” said she, sighing. “But of this I am certain, that I had not the name, which you were thinking of, upon my lips.” Ah! thought Mrs. Ormond, she has not forgotten how I checked her sensibility some time ago. Poor girl! she is become afraid of me, and I have taught her to dissemble; but she betrays herself every moment. “My dear,” said Mrs. Ormond, “you need not fear me--I cannot blame you: in your situation, it is impossible that you could help loving Mr. Hervey.” “Is it?” “Yes; quite impossible. So do not blame yourself for it.” “No, I do not blame myself for that. I only blame myself for not loving him _enough_, as I told you once before.” “Yes, my dear; and the oftener you tell me so, the more I am convinced of your affection. It is one of the strongest symptoms of love, that we are unconscious of its extent. We fancy that we can never do too much for the beloved object.” “That is exactly what I feel about Mr. Hervey.” “That we can never love him enough.” “Ah! that is precisely what I feel for Mr. Hervey.”