_Barford Alley_.


Five days more, and I am with you.--Saturday morning!--Oh that I may
support the hour of trial with fortitude!--I tremble at the thought;--my
blood freezes in my veins, when I behold the object I am to part from.--

I try in vain to keep out of her sight:--if I attempt to leave the room
where she is, my resolutions are baffled before I reach the door.--Why
do I endeavour to inflict so hard a penance!--Because I foolishly
suppose it would wean me.--Wean me _from what?_--From virtue.--No,
Molesworth, it is not _absence_;--it is not _time_ itself can deaden the
exalted image;--it neither sickens or dies, it blooms to immortality,

Was I only to be parted from beauty, _that_ I might meet again in every
town and village.--I want you to force me from the house.--Suppose I get
up early, and slip away without taking leave.--But that will not
do;--Sir James is ceremonious;--Lady Powis may deem it
disrespect;--above all, Miss Warley, _that dear, dear Miss Warley_,--if
_she_ should think me wanting in regard, all then must be at an end.

Ha! Sir James yonder on the terrace, and alone! Let me examine his
countenance:--I see no clouds;--this is the time, if ever!--Miss Warley
not yet come up from Jenkings's!--If successful, with what transports
shall I run to fetch her!--_Yes, I will_ venture;--_I will_ have one
trial, as I hope for mercy.--

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