"Call me _your's_," cried he, "and that will be the highest title I shall ever aspire to. But you shall know all, as indeed you have a right to do. _Your_ sister, and soon, I hope, _mine_, related to you the attachment which I had formed for you in my tenderest years, which, like the incision on the infant bark, _grew with my growth, and strengthened with my strength_. She likewise told you (but oh! how faint, how inadequate to my feelings!) the extreme anguish that seized me when I found you was married. Distraction surrounded me; I cannot give words to my grief and despair. I fled from a place which had lost its only attractive power. In the first paroxysm of affliction, I knew not what resolutions I formed. I wrote to Spencer--not to give rest or ease to my over-burdened heart; for that, alas! could receive no diminution--nor to complain; for surely I could not complain of you; my form was not imprinted on your mind, though your's had worn itself so deep a trace in mine. Spencer opposed my resolution of returning to Germany, where I had formed some connexions (only friendly ones, my Julia, but, as such, infinitely tender). _He_ it was that urged me to take the name of Ton-hausen, as that title belonged to an estate which devolved to me from the death of one of the most valuable men in the world, who had sunk into his grave, as the only asylum from a combination of woes. As some years had elapsed, in which I had increased in bulk and stature, joined to my having had the small-pox since I had been seen by you, he thought it more than probable you would not recollect my person. I hardly know what I proposed to myself, from closing with him in this scheme, only that I take Heaven to witness, I never meant to injure you; and I hope the whole tenor of my conduct has convinced you how sincere I was in that profession. From the great irregularity of your late husband's life, I had a _presentiment_, that you would at one time or other be free from your engagements. I revered you as one, to whom I hoped to be united; if not in this world, I might be a kindred-angel with you in the next. Your virtuous soul could not find its congenial friend in the riot and confusion in which you lived. I dared not trust myself to offer to become your guide. I knew the extreme hazard I should run; and that, with all the innocent intentions in the world, we might both be undone by our _passions_ before _reason_ could come to our assistance. I soon saw I had the happiness to be distinguished by you! and that distinction, while it raised my admiration of you, excited in me the desire of rendering myself still more worthy of your esteem; but even that esteem I refused myself the dear privilege of soliciting for. I acted with the utmost caution; and if, under the character of the Sylph, I dived into the recesses of your soul, and drew from thence the secret attachment you professed for the happy Baron, it was not so much