of the future; and the perils of youth are over when it has acquired that
dulness and apathy of affection which should belong only to the
insensibility of age.



Such were Falkland's opinions at the time he wrote. Ah! what is so
delusive as our affections? Our security is our danger--our defiance our
defeat! Day after day he went to E-------. He passed the mornings in
making excursions with Emily over that wild and romantic country by which
they were surrounded; and in the dangerous but delicious stillness of the
summer twilights, they listened to the first whispers of their hearts.

In his relationship to Lady Margaret, Falkland found his excuse for the
frequency of his visits: and even Mrs. Dalton was so charmed with the
fascination of his manner, that (in spite of her previous dislike) she
forgot to inquire how far his intimacy at E------ was at variance with
the proprieties of the world she worshipped, or in what proportion it was
connected with herself.

It is needless for me to trace through all its windings the formation of
that affection, the subsequent records of which I am about to relate.
What is so unearthly, so beautiful, as the first birth of a woman's
love? The air of heaven is not purer in its wanderings--its sunshine not
more holy in its warmth. Oh! why should it deteriorate in its nature,
even while it increases in its degree? Why should the step which
prints, sully also the snow? How often, when Falkland met that
guiltless yet thrilling eye, which revealed to him those internal
secrets that Emily was yet awhile too happy to discover; when, like a
fountain among flowers, the goodness of her heart flowed over the