WE advanced towards the place from where the sound issued, and _Fidelia_, who heard our approach, immediately rose from the ground; “I was tired,” said she, “and sat down here to rest myself.” SHE was dressed in a long white robe, tied about the waist with a pink ribband; her fine brown hair flowed loosely round her shoulders—In her hand she held a number of wild flowers and weeds, which she had been gathering. “These,” she cried, “are to make a nosegay for my love.” “He hath no occasion for it,” said _Eliza_. “Yes! where he lives,” cried _Fidelia_, “there are plenty—and flowers that never fade too—I will throw them into the river, and they will swim to him—they will go straight to him”—“And what will he do with them?” I asked; “O!” said the poor girl as she looked wistfully on them, and sorted them in her hand, “he loves everything that comes from me—he told me so”—“He will be happy to receive them,” cried _Eliza_. “Where he is,” said _Fidelia_, “is happiness—and happy are the flowers that bloom there—and happy shall I be, when I go to him—alas! I am very ill now”—“He will love you again,” said _Eliza_, “when you find him out”—“O he was very kind,” cried she, tenderly, “he delighted to walk with me over all these fields—but now, I am obliged to walk alone.” _Fidelia_ drew her hand across her cheek, and we wept with her.—“I must go,” she said, “I must go,” and turned abruptly from us, and left us with great precipitation. Farewel! LETTER XXVIII. _Worthy_ to _Myra_. _Belleview._