of it, she uniformly concluded with the one favourite theme: her
ill-starred love. Still I went on acting the part of the UNAMIABLE,
in the hope that she would take a spite against me. But whether
from inadvertency or design, she would not take the hint, and I was
at last fairly compelled to give up by sitting down contented to let
her have her way, smiling, sympathising with, and thanking her for
the sweet patience with which she had so long borne with me.

I no longer indulged the ungracious idea of spiting her against me,
and, by degrees, all my other fears were allayed. Assuredly I had
not been smitten; I long examined into the nature of my scruples,
wrote down my reflections upon the subject, and derived no little
advantage from the process.

Man often terrifies himself with mere bugbears of the mind. If we
would learn not to fear them, we have only to examine them a little
more nearly and attentively. What harm, then, if I looked forward
to her visits to me with a tender anxiety, if I appreciated their
sweetness, if it did me good to be compassioned by her, and to
interchange all our thoughts and feelings, unsullied, I will say, as
those of childhood. Even her most affectionate looks, and smiles,
and pressures of the hand, while they agitated me, produced a
feeling of salutary respect mingled with compassion. One evening, I
remember, when suffering under a sad misfortune, the poor girl threw
her arms round my neck, and wept as if her heart would break. She
had not the least idea of impropriety; no daughter could embrace a
father with more perfect innocence and unsuspecting affection. I
could not, however, reflect upon that embrace without feeling
somewhat agitated. It often recurred to my imagination, and I could
then think of no other subject. On another occasion, when she thus