I have written to Frank, a long letter, dear Sarah; and
meant to have written another to you; but I am really
unable. My strength is nearly exhausted. I had no idea
of it, till now; but the loss of sleep, I find, wears more,
upon my constitution, than the loss of food,---or even than
the troubles of the mind. You can read Frank's letter,
however, and consider it the same, as if written to you;
for I hardly know what else I could have said; except to

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praise heaven, from the bottom of my heart, that you
have escaped a protracted illness; and to pray your implicit
submission to Frank's guidance, in every particular,
just as if he were your own brother. Oh, yes—there
is yet another thing; but that is for you alone. Keep
your eye upon Juliet. I have my fears, that she is more
unhappy than she would seem; that there is some deep
grief, praying inwardly upon her, I am sure. She deceives
herself;---she deceives the world. But she cannot
deceive me. My tenderness is too vigilant; a secret disease
is working at her heart. You may guess it;---her
face is serene, her manners composed; and her spirits
never appeared more truly innocent and captivating;
but, at times, even in her pleasantest mood, when nobody
else saw her, I have seen her; all the festivity of her eye
vanished; her pale brow grow still paler; and her meek
lips trembled, as if a spectre had gone by—visible to her
eyes only. I suspect the truth. The world say that
she never loved---till now. What!---can it be, that—
no, no, I will not imagine such blasphemy.