I do, Sir, and nothing but anxiety for my father could have urged me thus far: it is with inexpressible concern I perceive you have some secret cause of uneasiness; reveal it, Sir, to those who claim a share in all your affliction, and suffer them, by participation to soften its severity. Louis looked up, and observed the countenance of his father pale as death: his lips trembled while he spoke. Your penetration, however, you may rely upon it, has, in the present instance, deceived you: I have no subject of distress, but what you are already acquainted with, and I desire this conversation may never be renewed. If it is your desire, of course I obey, said Louis; but, pardon me, Sir, if-- I will _not_ pardon you, Sir, interrupted La Motte; let the discourse end here. Saying this, he quickened his steps; and Louis, not daring to pursue, walked quietly on till he reached the abbey. Adeline passed the greatest part of the day alone in her chamber, where, having examined her conduct, she endeavoured to fortify her heart against the unmerited displeasure of Madame La Motte. This was a task more difficult than that of self-acquittance. She loved her, and had relied on her friendship, which, notwithstanding the conduct of Madame, still appeared valuable to her. It was true, she had not deserved to lose it; but Madame was so averse to explanation, that there was little probability of recovering it, however ill-founded might be the cause of her dislike. At length she reasoned, or rather perhaps persuaded herself into tolerable composure; for to resign a real good with contentment is less an effort of reason than of temper. For many hours she busied herself upon a piece of work which she had undertaken for Madame La Motte; and this she did without the least intention of conciliating her favour, but because she felt there was something in thus repaying unkindness, which was suitable to her own temper, her sentiments, and her pride. Self-love _may_ be the centre round which the human affections move; for whatever motive conduces to self-gratification may be resolved into self-love; yet some of these affections are in their nature so refined, that though we cannot deny their origin, they almost deserve the name of virtue. Of this species was that of Adeline. In this employment, and in reading, Adeline passed as much of the day as possible. From books, indeed, she had constantly derived her chief information and amusement: those belonging to La Motte were few, but well chosen; and Adeline could find pleasure in reading them more than once. When her mind was discomposed by the behaviour of Madame La Motte, or by a retrospection of her early misfortunes, a book was the opiate that lulled it to repose. La Motte had several of the best English poets, a language which Adeline had learned in the convent; their beauties, therefore, she was capable of tasting, and they often inspired her with enthusiastic delight.