him of my sincerity. We have parted in bitterness, but, thank Heaven,
not in guilt! He has entreated permission to write to me. How could I
refuse him? Yet I may not--cannot-write to him again! How could, I
indeed, suffer my heart to pour forth one of its feelings in reply? for
would there be one word of regret, or one term of endearment, which my
inmost soul would not echo?

Sunday.--Yes, that day--but I must not think of this; my very religion I
dare not indulge. Oh God! how wretched I am! His visit was always the
great aera in the clay; it employed all my hopes till he came, and all my
memory when he was gone. I sit now and look at the place he used to
fill, till I feel the tears rolling silently down my cheek: they come
without an effort--they depart without relief.

Monday.--Henry asked me where Mr. Falkland was gone; I stooped down to
hide my confusion. When shall I hear from him? To-morrow? Oh that it
were come! I have placed the clock before me, and I actually count the
minutes. He left a book here; it is a volume of "Melmoth." I have read
over every word of it, and whenever I have come to a pencil-mark by him,
I have paused to dream over that varying and eloquent countenance, the
low soft tone of that tender voice, till the book has fallen from my
hands, and I have started to find the utterness of my desolation!



FROM ERASMUS FALKLAND, ESQ., TO LADY EMILY MANDEVILLE.

------ Hotel, London.

For the first time in my life I write to you! How my hand trembles--how