Montreal, Sept. 19, eleven o'clock.

No, my dear, it is impossible she can love him; his dull soul is ill
suited to hers; heavy, unmeaning, formal; a slave to rules, to
ceremony, to _etiquette_, he has not an idea above those of a
gentleman usher. He has been three hours in town without seeing her;
dressing, and waiting to pay his compliments first to the general, who
is riding, and every minute expected back. I am all impatience, though
only her friend, but think it would be indecent in me to go without
him, and look like a design of reproaching his coldness. How
differently are we formed! I should have stole a moment to see the
woman I loved from the first prince in the universe.

The general is returned. Adieu! till our visit is over; we go from
thence to Major Melmoth's, whose family I should have told you are in
town, and not half a street from us. What a soul of fire has this
_lover!_ 'Tis to profane the word to use it in speaking of him.

One o'clock.

I am mistaken, Lucy; astonishing as it is, she loves him; this dull
clod of uninformed earth has touched the lively soul of my Emily. Love
is indeed the child of caprice; I will not say of sympathy, for what
sympathy can there be between two hearts so different? I am hurt, she
is lowered in my esteem; I expected to find in the man she loved, a
mind sensible and tender as her own.

I repeat it, my dear Lucy, she loves him; I observed her when we
entered the room; she blushed, she turned pale, she trembled, her
voice faltered; every look spoke the strong emotion of her soul.