Glorvina has made the plea of a headache these two mornings back, for playing the truant at her drawing desk; but the fact is, her days and nights are devoted to the sentimental sorcery of Rosseau, and the effects of her studies are visible in her eyes. When we meet, her glance sinks beneath the ardour of mine in soft confusion; her manner is no longer childishly playful, or carelessly indifferent, and sometimes a sigh, scarce breathed, is discovered by the blush which glows on her cheek for the inadvertency of her lip. Does she, then, begin to feel she has a heart? Does “_Le besoin de l’ame tendre_,” already throb with vague emotion in her bosom? Her abstracted air, her delicious melancholy, her unusual softness, betray the nature of the feelings by which she is overwhelmed--they are new to herself; and sometimes I fancy, when she turns her melting eyes on me, it is to solicit their meaning. O! if I dared become the interpreter between her and her heart--if I dared indulge myself in the hope, the belief that---- and what then? ’Tis all folly, ’tis madness, ’tis worse! But whoever yet rejected the blessing for which his soul thirsted?--And in the scale of human felicities, if there is one in which all others is summed up--above all others supremely elevated--it is the consciousness of having awakened the first sentiment of the sweetest, the sublimest of all passions, in the bosom of youth, genius, and sensibility. Adieu, H. M. LETTER XX. TO J. D. ESQ., M. P. I had just finished my last by the beams of a gloriously setting sun, when I was startled by a pebble being thrown in at my window. I looked out, and perceived Father John in the act of flinging up another, which the hand of Glorvina (who was leaning on his arm) prevented. “If you are not engaged in writing to your mistress,” said he, “come down and join us in a ramble.” “And though I were,” I replied, “I could not resist your challenge.” And down I flew--Glorvina laughing, sent me back for my hat, and we proceeded on our walk. “This is an evening,” said I, looking at Glorvina, “worthy of the morning of the first of May, and we have seized it in that happy moment so exquisitly described by Collins: -“'While now the bright hair’d sun Sits on yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts With brede etherial wove, O’erhang his wavy bed.’” >