but my courage did not suddenly desert me. My hopes seemed to be
extinguished the moment that I distinctly perceived the point to which
they led. My mind had undergone a change. The ideas with which it was
fraught wrere varied. The sight or recollection of Clarice was sure to
occasion my mind to advert to the recent discovery, and to revolve the
considerations naturally connected with it. Some latent glows and secret
trepidations were likewise experienced, when, by some accident, our
meetings were abrupt or our interviews unwitnessed; yet my usual
tranquillity was not as yet sensibly diminished. I could bear to think
of her marriage with another without painful emotions, and was anxious
only that her choice should be judicious and fortunate.

My thoughts could not long continue in this state. They gradually became
more ardent and museful. The image of Clarice occurred with unseasonable
frequency. Its charms were enhanced by some nameless and indefinable
additions. When it met me in the way I was irresistibly disposed to stop
and survey it with particular attention. The pathetic cast of her
features, the deep glow of her cheek, and some catch of melting music
she had lately breathed, stole incessantly upon my fancy. On recovering
from my thoughtful moods, I sometimes found my cheeks wet with tears
that had fallen unperceived, and my bosom heaved with involuntary sighs.
These images did not content themselves with invading my wakeful hours,
but, likewise, encroached upon my sleep. I could no longer resign myself
to slumber with the same ease as before. When I slept, my visions were
of the same impassioned tenor.

There was no difficulty in judging rightly of my situation. I knew what
it was that duty exacted from me. To remain in my present situation was
a chimerical project. That time and reflection would suffice to restore
me to myself was a notion equally fallacious. Yet I felt an