The waiting-maid’s second epistle, on which Mrs. Coates had written, “_a sugar plum for a certain gentleman_,” contained the good tidings “that the first was all a mistake. There was no spotted fever, the general’s own man would take his Bible oath, within ten miles round--and Miss Montenero’s throat was gone off--and she was come out of her room. But as to spirits and good looks, she had left both in St. James’-square, Lon’on; _where her heart was, fur certain_. For since she come to the country, never was there such a change in any living lady, young or old--quite moped!--The general, and his aide-de-camp, and every body, noticing it at dinner even. To be sure if it did not turn out a _match_, which there was some doubts of, on account of the family’s and the old gentleman’s particular oaths and objections, as she had an inkling of, there would be two broken hearts. Lord forbid!--though a Jewish heart might be harder to break than another’s, yet it looked likely.” The remainder of the letter, Mrs. Coates, or her maid, had very prudently torn off. I was now relieved from all apprehensions of spotted fever; and though I might reasonably have doubted the accuracy of all the intelligence conveyed by such a correspondent, yet I could not help having a little faith in some of her observations. My hopes, at least, rose delightfully; and with my hope, my ardent impatience to see Berenice again. At last, the joyful notice of Mr. and Miss Montenero’s return to town was brought to me by the old woman. Mr. Montenero admitted me the moment I called. Miss Montenero was not at home, or not visible. I was shown into Mr. Montenero’s study. The moment I entered, the moment I saw him, I was struck with some change in his countenance--some difference in his manner of receiving me. In what the difference consisted, I could not define; but it alarmed me. “Good Heavens!” I exclaimed, “is Miss Montenero ill?” “My daughter is perfectly well, my dear sir.” “Thank Heaven! But you, sir?” “I,” said Mr. Montenero, “am also in perfect health. What alarms you?” “I really don’t well know,” said I, endeavouring to laugh at myself, and my own apprehensions; “but I thought I perceived some change in the expression of your countenance towards me, my dear Mr. Montenero. You must know, that all my life, my quickness of perception of the slightest change in the countenance and manner of those I love, has ever been a curse to me; for my restless imagination always set to work to invent causes--and my causes, though ingenious, unluckily, seldom happened to be the real causes. Many a vain alarm, many a miserable hour, has this superfluous activity of imagination cost me--so I am determined to cure myself.”