him the compliments you desired; he was so much
flattered by your notice that he could make no
reply, though I doubt not he prized the honour as
he ought. We are all very happy here, only for the
absence of my Anna; but so long as miles of weary
roads and endless rivers run between us, perfect
happiness can never reign in the breast of your
Julia. Anna, I conjure you by all the sacred delicacy
that consecrates our friendship, never to show this
letter, unless you would break my heart: you never
will, I am certain, and therefore I will write to my
Anna in the unreserved manner in which we
conversed, when fate, less cruel than at present,
suffered us to live in the sunshine of each other's
smiles. You speak of a certain person in your letter,
whom, for obvious reasons, I will in future call
ANTONIO. You describe him with the partiality of a
friend; but how can I doubt his being worthy of all
that you say, and more--sensible, brave, rich, and
handsome. From his name, I suppose, of course, he
is well connected. What a constellation of
attractions to centre in one man! But you have not
told me all--his age, his family, his profession;
though I presume he has borne arms in the service
of his country, and that his manly breast is already
covered with the scars of honour. Ah! Anna, "he
jests at scars who never felt a wound." But, my
dear creature, you say that he talks of me: what
under the sun can you find to say of such a poor girl
as myself? Though I suppose you have, in the