“You have my word, Captain Ludlow, that this unseasonable appearance in the pavilion, is indiscreet, not to call it cruel,” she said, so soon as they were again alone; “but that you have it, in any manner, to justify your imprudence, I must continue to doubt until confronted by proof.” “I had thought to have made a very different use of this,” returned Ludlow, drawing a letter,—we admit it with some reluctance in one so simple and so manly,—from his bosom: “and even now, I take shame in producing it, though at your own orders. “Some magic has wrought a marvel, or the scrawl has no such importance,” observed Alida, taking a billet that she now began to repent having ever written. “The language of politeness and female reserve must admit of strange perversions, or all who read are not the best interpreters.” La belle Barbérie ceased speaking, for the instant her eye fell on the paper, an absorbing and intense curiosity got the better of her resentment. We shall give the contents of the letter, precisely in the words which caused so much amazement, and possibly some little uneasiness, to the fair creature who was perusing it. “The life of a seaman,” said the paper, in a delicate and beautiful female hand, “is one of danger and exposure. It inspires confidence in woman, by the frankness to which it gives birth, and it merits indulgence by its privations. She who writes this, is not insensible to the merit of men of this bold calling. Admiration for the sea, and for those who live on it has been her weakness through life; and her visions of the future, like her recollections of the past, are not entirely exempt from a contemplation of its pleasures. The usages of different nations—glory in arms—change of scene—with constancy in the affections, all sweetened by affluence, are temptations too strong for a female imagination, and they should not be without their influence on the judgment of man. Adieu.” This note was read, re-perused, and for the third time conned, ere Alida ventured to raise her eyes to the face of the expectant young man. “And this indelicate and unfeminine rhapsody, Captain Ludlow has seen proper to ascribe to me!” she said, while her voice trembled between pride and mortification. “To whom else can I impute it? No other, lovely Alida, could utter language so charming, in words so properly chosen.” The long lashes of the maiden played quickly above their dark organs, and then, conquering feelings that were strangely in contradiction to each other, she said with dignity, turning to a little ebony éscritoire which lay beside her dressing-box— “My correspondence is neither very important nor very extensive; but such as it is, happily for the reputation of the writer’s taste, if not for her sanity, I believe it is in my power to show the trifle I thought it decorous to write, in reply to your own letter. Here is a copy,” she added, opening what in fact was a draught, and reading aloud.