spoke, he pressed me to his bosom; and expressed in his voice and manner more warmth of affection than he had discovered since I forsook the mountains. He kissed me several times with rapture; and his eyes dwelt on me with an ardor I have long been unused to behold. The adventure at the opera returned to my imagination. These caresses, thought I, have been bestowed on one, whose prostituted charms are more admired than mine. I sighed--"Why do you sigh, Julia?" asked my husband. "I know not," I answered. "I ought not to sigh in the very moment I am receiving proofs of your affection. But I have not lately received such proofs, and therefore perhaps I sighed." "You are a foolish girl, Julia, yet a good one too"--cried he, kissing me again: "Foolish, to fancy I do not love you; and a good girl, not to ask impertinent questions. That is, your tongue is silent, but you have wicked eyes, Julia, that seek to look into my inmost thoughts."--"Then I will shut them," said I, affecting to laugh--but added, in a more serious tone--"I will see no further than you would wish me; to please you, I will _be blind, insensible and blind_." "But, as you are not deaf, I will tell you what you well know--that I was at the opera--and with a lady too.--Do not, however, be jealous, my dear: the woman I was with was perfectly indifferent to me. I met her by accident--but I had a mind to see what effect such a piece of flirtation would have on you. I am not displeased with your behaviour; nor would I have you so with mine." "I will in all my best obey you," said I.--"Then go to bed," said he--"_To bed, my love, and I will follow thee_." You will not scruple to pronounce this a reasonable long letter, my dear Louisa, for a modern fine lady.--Ah! shield me from that character! Would to heaven Sir William was no more of the modern fine gentleman in his heart! I could be happy with him.--Yes, Louisa--was I indeed the object of his affections, not merely so of his passions, which, I fear, I am, I could indeed be happy with him. My person still invites his caresses--but for the softer sentiments of the soul--that ineffable tenderness which depends not on the tincture of the skin--of that, alas! he has no idea. A voluptuary in love, he professes not that delicacy which refines all its joys. His is all passion; sentiment is left out of the catalogue. Adieu! JULIA STANLEY. LETTER XIV. TO THE SAME. I hope, my dearest Louisa will not be too much alarmed at a whole fortnight's silence. Ah! Louisa, the event which occasioned it may be productive of very fatal consequences to me--yet I will not despair. No, I will trust in a good God, and the virtuous education I have had. They will arm me to subdue inclinations, irreversible fate has rendered improper. But to the point.