EMILIA. It is, indeed, very unfortunate. CHARLES. No, I do not call it a misfortune, sister. EMILIA. How, do not you think that a misfortune? CHARLES. You make me smile—I shall soon forget my drawing, it was only a trial of temper; my mother’s sickness was a misfortune, indeed, and the poor woman who had lost her child had reason to weep; but what admits of a remedy, should not be called a misfortune, it is only a momentary vexation. And after all, I was the person to blame, it was I who was careless; if I had locked up my drawing, or shut the window myself, this accident would not have happened. EMILIA. But, Charles, will you begin another? CHARLES. Yes, certainly, and perhaps it may be much better, for another design has just entered my head. He then wished me a good night, and I must do the same. I am glad I did not entirely fill up my paper, and yet I shall not say much, I am so dull. Edward has just left us to join his regiment. My tears fall while I write. I do not like these separations; I wish those whom I love were always to remain with me! Charles has just mentioned to my father, a circumstance that he appeared to be much ashamed of. I have not time to write the particulars; I can only now tell you, that he read a part of one of Dr. Bartlett’s letters, without his leave; he saw the Doctor in great distress, and was so anxious to know what occasioned it, that he acted contrary to his own notions of honour. This letter contained an account of some misfortunes that had befallen the Doctor’s family, which he, from a motive of delicacy, concealed from my father, thinking he had already done too much for them. My father went instantly to his friend, with whom he had a long conversation, and after he returned to his study, he sent for Charles, and mildly addressed him. SIR CHARLES. I have at last prevailed on my friend to state the whole affair to me, and it will soon be settled to his satisfaction. And now let me caution you, my son, never to let even your affection induce you to pry into the secrets of others: a good end does not justify the improper means employed to reach it. Honour is a sacred thing, and no motive should influence us to trifle with fixed principles-our views are bounded, and we ought to adhere to strict rules, not knowing how to modify them. Your youthful warmth now pleads in your favour; I am acquainted with the goodness of your heart; but goodness should ever be restrained by duty, or it will not uniformly actuate our conduct. My father then smiled on Charles, adding, this is a caution, and not a reproof. I have almost written another letter. Believe me ever your’s. EMILIA.