WHAT books do you read, my dear? We are now finishing _Barlow’s_ Vision of _Columbus_, and shall begin upon _Dwight’s_ Conquest of _Canaan_ in a few days. It is very agreeable to read with one, who points out the beauties of the author as we proceed. Such a one is _Worthy_.—Sometimes Mr. _Holmes_ makes one of our party, and his notes and references to the ancient poets are very entertaining. _Worthy_ is delighted with the ease and freedom with which we live here. We have little concerts, we walk, we ride, we read, we have good company—this is _Belleview_ in all its glory. ADIEU, my dear—I shall continue this subject no longer, though I flatter myself you would receive my hints with satisfaction, because you must be persuaded I love you, and so interest myself in your welfare—I need not add that I think your conduct worthy of you. You are such a good girl that I know not in what to direct you; for you leave me no room for advice—continue to anticipate the desires of my heart, and secure the high opinion you have there obtained. Your friend forever! LETTER XXXI. Mrs. _Holmes_ to _Myra_. _Belleview._ IF the affair of your brother and _Harriot_ be serious, and matrimony is really on the _tapis_, do not fail to make me _previously_ acquainted with it.—I very much doubt the evidence of the verses—they weigh little in my mind—and he is easily excused for sending them to so fine a girl as _Harriot_. YOUR observations on her dependence on Mrs. _Francis_ do honour to your heart—virtue does not consist in affluence and independence—nor can it be reflected on us by the glory of our connexions—those who pride themselves on it, make but an indifferent figure; for in the estimation of all sensible people—true merit is personal. HOWEVER, my dear friend, as one who wishes for your welfare and the happiness of your family, I advise you to discourage the proposed connexion—and if you cannot undertake this disagreeable talk with a _certain of success_, do not fail to acquaint me of it _speedily_. Adieu! LETTER XXXII. _Harrington_ to _Worthy_. _Boston._ WHAT ails my heart? I feel a void here—and yet I verge towards my happiness—for a few days makes _Harriot_ mine—_Myra_ says I had _better not marry her_. What could prompt her to use such an expression? _Better not marry her._ She has repeated it several times—and with too much eagerness—I give no heed to it—and yet, why should it affect me in this manner? Is it an artifice to fathom the depth of my love? Such schemes are my utter aversion—it disturbs me—I hate such artifice—You cannot imagine how it touches my heart.