_Mrs. H._ You confuse me!--But why should I play the prude? I will own there was a time, when I thought myself handsome. 'Tis past. Alas! the enchanting beauties of a female countenance arise from peace of mind--The look, which captivates an honourable man, must be reflected from a noble soul. _Countess._ Then Heaven grant my bosom may ever hold as pure a heart, as now those eyes bear witness lives in yours! _Mrs. H._ [_With sudden wildness._] Oh! Heaven forbid! _Countess._ [_Astonished._] How! _Mrs. H._ [_Checking her tears._] Spare me! I am a wretch. The sufferings of three years can give me no claim to your friendship--No, not even to your compassion. Oh! spare me! [_Going._ _Countess._ Stay, Mrs. Haller. For the first time, I beg your confidence.--My brother loves you. _Mrs. H._ [_Starting, and gazing full in the face of the COUNTESS._] For mirth, too much--for earnest, too mournful! _Countess._ I revere that modest blush. Discover to me who you are. You risk nothing. Pour all your griefs into a sister's bosom. Am I not kind? and can I not be silent? _Mrs. H._ Alas! But a frank reliance on a generous mind is the greatest sacrifice to be offered by true repentance. This sacrifice I will offer. [_Hesitating._] Did you never hear--Pardon me--Did you never hear--Oh! how shocking is it to unmask a deception, which alone has recommended me to your regard! But it must be so.--Madam--Fie, Adelaide! does pride become you? Did you never hear of the Countess Waldbourg? _Countess._ I think I did hear, at the neighbouring court, of such a creature. She plunged an honourable husband into misery. She ran away with a villain. _Mrs. H._ She did indeed. [_Falls at the feet of the COUNTESS._] Do not cast me from you. _Countess._ For Heaven's sake! You are-- _Mrs. H._ I am that wretch. _Countess._ [_Turning from her with horror._] Ha!--Begone! [_Going. Her heart draws her back._] Yet, she is unfortunate: she is unfriended! Her image is repentance--Her life the proof--She has wept her fault in her three years agony. Be still awhile, remorseless prejudice, and let the genuine feelings of my soul avow--they do not truly honour virtue, who can insult the erring heart that would return to her sanctuary. [_Looking with sorrow on her._] Rise, I beseech you, rise! My husband and my brother may surprise us. I promise to be silent. [_Raising her._ _Mrs. H._ Yes, you will be silent--But, oh! conscience! conscience! thou never wilt be silent. [_Clasping her hands._] Do not cast me from you. _Countess._ Never! Your lonely life, your silent anguish and contrition, may at length atone your crime. And never shall you want an asylum, where your penitence may lament your loss. Your crime was youth and inexperience; your heart never was, never could be concerned in it.