Dear mother, how often have you warned me against such behaviour, and how tenderly have I seen you treat those whom others despised? Farewel. WILLIAM. LETTER LV. WILLIAM _to his_ MOTHER. Forgive me, dear mother, for having been so long silent, but I have only disagreeable tidings to communicate to you. We all wear a face of woe; my worthy benefactor, our dear Sir Charles, is very ill, and has been so for some time. The physicians think him in great danger, and we expect nothing but death. Lady Grandison, as you may well imagine, is almost inconsolable. Emilia is continually weeping, and Edward appears almost distracted. I will give you an account of a conversation we had yesterday, after we left the sick room. Edward clasped his hands together as in despair, and threw himself into a chair in an adjoining chamber. Ah! William, he cried, how it grieves me to think I have so often offended my more than father; yes, my friend, every thing I have done now haunts me, and pains my very soul. WILLIAM. My dear Edward be comforted, he is still alive, and God may perhaps restore him to health. EDWARD. I know I do not deserve that favour, I have so often offended him, and though he has forgiven me, I can never forgive myself; and, perhaps, God will not forgive me. Happy Charles, who now, because he has always been dutiful, can look for his father’s death with a sedate sorrow, while I fly from his sick bed, continually tormented by fear and remorse. WILLIAM. Indeed he appears to have much fortitude. EDWARD. He has a Father in heaven that is good to him, who gives him power to support his grief. WILLIAM. Pray you also to that Father, and you too will obtain his favour; the unhappy who sincerely turn to him, will always find him compassionate and ready to forgive those who really lament their faults, not merely the consequences produced by them. EDWARD. Well then, I will do so; but oh! William, my heart is very heavy. Dear mother, I pity poor Edward, but I admire Charles; and I do not know which to praise most, his filial love, or his sedateness and patience; in the bitterness of his grief he scarcely ever leaves his sick parent, he gives him his medicines, stifles his sighs, and hides his tears, and almost seems afraid to breathe when his father closes his eyes; but I have seen him fold his hands together, and, lifting up his eyes to heaven, pray with ardour. I will not send this letter off till to-morrow, when I will write again. WILLIAM, _in continuation_.