water, and, if possible, the clay of the ditches I contentedly dig, than
live better at the price of our child's ruin.

I hope the good 'squire has no design: but when he has given you so much
money, and speaks so kindly to you, and praises your coming on; and, oh,
that fatal word! that he would be kind to you, if you would do as you
should do, almost kills us with fears.

I have spoken to good old widow Mumford about it, who, you know, has
formerly lived in good families; and she puts us in some comfort; for she
says it is not unusual, when a lady dies, to give what she has about her
person to her waiting-maid, and to such as sit up with her in her
illness. But, then, why should he smile so kindly upon you? Why should
he take such a poor girl as you by the hand, as your letter says he has
done twice? Why should he stoop to read your letter to us; and commend
your writing and spelling? And why should he give you leave to read his
mother's books?--Indeed, indeed, my dearest child, our hearts ache for
you; and then you seem so full of joy at his goodness, so taken with his
kind expressions, (which, truly, are very great favours, if he means
well) that we fear--yes, my dear child, we fear--you should be too
grateful,--and reward him with that jewel, your virtue, which no riches,
nor favour, nor any thing in this life, can make up to you.

I, too, have written a long letter, but will say one thing more; and that
is, that, in the midst of our poverty and misfortunes, we have trusted in
God's goodness, and been honest, and doubt not to be happy hereafter, if
we continue to be good, though our lot is hard here; but the loss of our
dear child's virtue would be a grief that we could not bear, and would
bring our grey hairs to the grave at once.