You say you love her—why then not make her your
wife?

My wife! Surely her extreme youth, and my destitute
condition, will account for that.

She is fifteen; the age of delicate fervor; of inartificial
love, and suitable enough for marriage. As to your condition,
you may live more easily together than apart. She
has no false taste or perverse desires to gratify. She has
been trained in simple modes and habits. Besides, that
objection can be removed another way. But are these all
your objections?

Her youth I object to, merely in connexion with her mind.
She is too little improved to be my wife. She wants that
solidity of mind; that maturity of intelligence which ten
years more may possibly give her, but which she cannot
have at this age.

You are a very prudential youth; then you are willing to
wait ten years for a wife?

Does that follow? Because my Bess will not be qualified
for wedlock, in less time, does it follow that I must wait
for her?

I spoke on the supposition that you loved her.

And that is true; but love is satisfied with studying her
happiness as her father or brother. Some years hence, perhaps
in half a year, for this passion, called wedded, or
marriage-wishing love, is of sudden growth, my mind may
change, and nothing may content me but to have Bess for
my wife. Yet I do not expect it.

Then you are determined against marriage with this girl.

Of course; until that love comes which I feel not now;
but which, no doubt, will come, when Bess has had the
benefit of five or eight years more, unless previously excited
by another.

All this is strange, Arthur. I have heretofore supposed
that you actually loved (I mean with the marriage-seeking
passion) your Bess.

I believe I once did; but it happened at a time when
marriage was improper; in the life of her father and sister,
and when I had never known in what female excellence
consisted. Since that time my happier lo has cast me

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among women so far above Eliza Hadwin; so far above,
and so widely different from any thing which time is likely
to make her, that I own, nothing appears more unlikely than
that I shall ever love her.

Are you not a little capricious in that respect, my good
friend? You have praised your Bess as rich in natural endowments;
as having an artless purity and rectitude of mind,
which somewhat supersedes the use of formal education;
as being full of sweetness and tenderness, and in her person
a very angel of loveliness.

All that is true. I never saw features and shape so delicately
beautiful; I never knew so young a mind so quick
sighted and so firm; but, nevertheless, she is not the creature
whom I would call my wife. My bosom slave; counsellor;
friend; the mother; the pattern; the tutress of my
children must be a different creature.

But what are the attributes of this desirable which Bess
wants?

Every thing she wants. Age, capacity, acquirements,
person, features, hair, complexion, all, all are different
from this girl's.

And pray of what kind may they be?

I cannot portray them in words—but yes, I can:—The
creature whom I shall worship:—it sounds oddly, but, I
verily believe, the sentiment which I shall feel for my wife,
will be more akin to worship than any thing else. I shall
never love, but such a creature as I now image to myself,
and such a creature will deserve, or almost deserve, worship—
but this creature, I was going to say, must be the exact
counterpart, my good mamma—of yourself.

This was said very earnestly, and with eyes and manners
that fully expressed my earnestness; perhaps my expressions
were unwittingly strong and emphatic, for she started
and blushed, but the cause of her discomposure, whatever
it was, was quickly removed, and she said;

Poor Bess! This will be sad news to thee!

Heaven forbid! said I, of what moment can my opinions
be to her?

Strange questioner that thou art. Thou knowest that her
gentle heart is touched with love. See how it shews itself

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in the tender and inimitable strain of this epistle. Does
not this sweet ingenuousness bewitch you?

It does so, and I love, beyond expression, the sweet girl;
but my love is in some inconceivable way, different from the
passion which that other creature will produce. She is no
stranger to my thoughts. I will impart every thought over
and over to her. I question not but I shall make her happy
without forfeiting my own.

Would marriage with her, be a forfeiture of your happiness?

Not absolutely, or forever, I believe. I love her company.
Her absence for a long time is irksome. I cannot
express the delight with which I see and hear her. To
mark her features, beaming with vivacity; playful in her
pleasures; to hold her in my arms, and listen to her prattle;
always musically voluble; always sweetly tender, or
artlessly intelligent—and this you will say is the dearest
privilege of marriage; and so it is; and dearly should I
prize it; and yet, I fear my heart would droop as often as
that other image should occur to my fancy. For then, you
know, it would occur as something never to be possessed
by me.

Now this image might, indeed, seldom occur. The intervals,
at least, would be serene. It would be my interest
to prolong these intervals as much as possible, and my
endeavors to this end, would, no doubt, have some effect.
Besides, the bitterness of this reflection would be lessened
by contemplating, at the same time, the happiness of my
beloved girl.

I should likewise have to remember, that to continue
unmarried, would not necessarily secure me the possession
of the other good—

But these reflections, my friend (broke she in upon me)
are of as much force to induce you to marry, as to reconcile
you to a marriage already contracted.

Perhaps they are. Assuredly, I have not a hope that
the fancied excellence will ever be mine. Such happiness
is not the lot of humanity, and is, least of all, within my
reach.

Your diffidence, replied my friend, in a timorous accent,
has not many examples; but your character, without

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doubt, is all your own, possessing all and disclaiming all, is,
in few words, your picture.

I scarcely understand you. Do you think I ever shall
be happy to that degree which I have imagined. Think
you I shall ever meet with an exact copy of yourself?

Unfortunate you will be, if you do not meet with many
better. Your Bess, in personals, is, beyond measure, my
superior, and in mind, allowing for difference in years,
quite as much so.

But that, returned I, with quickness and fervor, is not
the object. The very counterpart of you I want; neither
worse nor better, nor different in any thing. Just such
form, such features, such hues. Just that melting voice,
and above all, the same habits of thinking and conversing.
In thought, word, and deed; gesture, look and form, that
rare and precious creature whom I shall love, must be your
resemblance. Your—

Have done with these comparisons, interrupted she, in
some hurry, and let us return to the country girl, thy Bess.

You once, my friend, wished me to treat this girl of yours
as my sister. Do you know what the duties of a sister are?

They imply no more kindness or affection than you already
feel toward thy Bess. Are you not her sister?

I ought to have been so. I ought to have been proud of
the relation you ascribe to me, but I have not performed
any of its duties. I blush to think upon the coldness and
perverseness of my heart. With such means as I possess,
of giving happiness to others, I have been thoughtless and
inactive to a strange degree; perhaps, however, it is not
yet too late. Are you still willing to invest me with all the
rights of an elder sister over this girl? And will she consent,
think you?

Certainly, she will; she has.

Then the first act of sistership, will be to take her from
the country; from persons on whose kindness she has no
natural claim, whose manners and characters are unlike her
own, and with whom no improvement can be expected, and
bring her back to her sister's house and bosom, to provide
for her subsistence and education, and watch over her happiness.

I will not be a nominal sister. I will not be a sister by

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halves. All the rights of that relation I will have, or none.
As for you, you have claims upon her, on which I must be
permitted to judge, as becomes the elder sister, who, by the
loss of all other relations, must occupy the place, possess the
rights, and fulfil the duties of father, mother and brother.

She has now arrived at an age, when longer to remain in
a cold and churlish soil, will stunt her growth and wither her
blossoms. We must hasten to transplant her to a genial
element, and a garden well enclosed. Having so long
neglected this charming plant, it becomes me henceforth to
take her wholly to myself.

And now, for it is no longer in her or your power to take
back the gift, since she is fully mine, I will charge you with
the office of conducting her hither. I grant it to you as a
favor. Will you go?

Go! I will fly! I exclaimed, in an ecstacy of joy, on
pinions swifter than the wind. Not the lingering of an instant
will I bear. Look! one, two, three—thirty minutes after
nine. I will reach Curling's gate by the morn's dawn. I
will put my girl into a chaise, and by noon, she shall throw
herself into the arms of her sister. But first, shall I not, in
some way, manifest my gratitude?

My senses were bewildered, and I knew not what I did.
I intended to kneel, as to my mother or my deity, but, instead
of that, I clasped her in my arms, and kissed her lips
fervently. I stayed not to discover the effects of this insanity,
but left the room and the house, and calling for a moment
at Stevens', left word with the servant, my friend being
gone abroad, that I should not return till the morrow.

Never was a lighter heart, a gaiety more overflowing, and
more buoyant than mine. All cold from a boisterous night,
at a chilly season, all weariness from a rugged and miry
road, were charmed away. I might have ridden, but I
could not brook delay, even the delay of inquiring for and
equipping a horse. I might thus have saved myself fatigue,
and have lost no time, but my mind was in too great a tumult
for deliberation and forecast. I saw nothing but the
image of my girl, whom my tidings would render happy.

The way was longer than my fond imagination had foreseen.
I did not reach Curling's till an hour after sunrise.
The distance was full thirty-five miles. As I hastened up

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the green lane leading to the house, I spied my Bess passing
through a covered way, between the dwelling and kitchen.
I caught her eye. She stopped and held up her hands, and
then ran into my arms.

What means my girl? Why this catching of the breath?
Why this sobbing? Look at me, my love. It is Arthur, he
who has treated you with forgetfulness, neglect, and cruelty.

O! do not, she replied, hiding her face with her hand.
One single reproach, added to my own, will kill me. That
foolish, wicked letter—I could tear my fingers for writing it.

But, said I, I will kiss them—and put them to my lips.
They have told me the wishes of my girl. They have enabled
me to gratify her wishes. I have come to carry thee
this very moment to town.

Lord bless me, Arthur—said she, lost in a sweet confusion,
and her cheeks, always glowing, glowing still more
deeply—indeed, I did not mean—I meant only—I
will stay here—I would rather stay—

It grieves me to hear that, said I, with earnestness, I
thought I was studying our mutual happiness.

It grieves you? Don't say so. I would not grieve you
for the world—but, indeed, indeed, it is too soon. Such a
girl as I, am not yet fit to—live in your city. Again she
hid her glowing face in my bosom.

Sweet consciousness! Heavenly innocence! thought I;
may Achsa's conjectures prove false!—You have mistaken
my design, for I do not intend to carry you to town with
such a view as you have hinted—but merely to place you
with a beloved friend; with Achsa Fielding, of whom
already you know so much, where we shall enjoy each
other's company without restraint or intermission.

I then proceeded to disclose to her the plan suggested by
my friend, and to explain all the consequences that would
flow from it. I need not say that she assented to the scheme.
She was all rapture and gratitude. Preparations for departure
were easily and speedily made. I hired a chaise of
a neighboring farmer, and, according to my promise, by
noon the same day, delivered the timid and bashful girl into
the arms of her new sister.

She was received with the utmost tenderness, not only

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by Mrs. Fielding, but by all my friends. Her affectionate
heart was encouraged to pour forth all its feeling as into the
bosom of a mother. She was reinspired with confidence.
Her want of experience was supplied by the gentlest admonitions
and instructions. In every plan for her improvement,
suggested by her new mamma, for she never called
her by any other name, she engaged with docility and eagerness;
and her behavior and her progress exceeded the
most sanguine hopes that I had formed, as to the softness
of her temper and the acuteness of her genius.

Those graces which a polished education, and intercourse
with the better classes of society, are adapted to give, my
girl possessed, in some degree, by a native and intuitive refinement
and sagacity of mind. All that was to be obtained
from actual observation and instruction, was obtained without
difficulty; and in a short time, nothing but the affectionate
simplicity and unperverted feelings of the country girl,
bespoke the original condition.—

What art so busy about, Arthur? Always at thy pen of
late. Come, I must know the fruit of all this toil and all this
meditation. I am determined to scrape acquaintance with
Haller and Linæus. I will begin this very day. All one's
friends you know should be our's. Love has made many a
patient, and let me see if it cannot, in my case, make a
physician. But first, what is all this writing about?

Mrs. Wentworth has put me upon a strange task—not
disagreeable, however, but such as I should, perhaps, have
declined, had not the absence of my Bess, and her mamma,
made the time hang somewhat heavy. I have, oftener than
once, and far more circumstantially than now, told her my
adventures, but she is not satisfied. She wants a written
narrative, for some purpose which she tells me she will disclose
to me hereafter.

Luckily, my friend Stevens has saved me more than half
the trouble. He has done me the favor to compile much of
my history with his own hand. I cannot imagine what
could prompt him to so wearisome an undertaking; but he
says that adventures and a destiny so singular as mine, ought
not to be abandoned to forgetfulness like any vulgar and
every-day existence. Besides, when he wrote it, he suspected
that it might be necessary to the safety of my

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reputation and my life, from the consequences of my connexion
with Welbeck. Time has annihilated that danger. All
enmities and all suspicions are buried with that ill-fated
wretch. Wortley has been won by my behavior, and confides
in my integrity now as much as he formerly suspected
it. I am glad, however, that the task was performed. It
has saved me a world of writing. I had only to take up the
broken thread, and bring it down to the period of my present
happiness, and this was done, just as you tripped along
the entry this morning.

To bed, my friend, it is late, and this delicate frame is
not half so able to encounter fatigue as a youth spent in the
hay-field and the dairy might have been expected to be.

I will, but let me take these sheets along with me. I will
read them, that I am determined, before I sleep, and watch
if you have told the whole truth.

Do so, if you please; but remember one thing. Mrs.
Wentworth requested me to write not as if it were designed
for her perusal, but for those who have no previous knowledge
of her or of me. 'Twas an odd request. I cannot
imagine what she means by it, but she never acts without
good reason, and I have done so. And now withdraw, my
dear, and farewell.