the gaiety of his heart in some sort disturbed, and was not pleased to
catch me listening, with such mute attention, to the ravishing music
she had made.

Once again prithee tell me, Oliver, what am I to think? It was
impossible she should have sung as she did, had not the ideas affected
her more than I could have hoped, nay as much as they did myself. She
knew the writing. Why did she sigh? Why feel indignant? Why express
every sentiment that had passed through my mind with increasing
force?--What could she think?--Did she not approve?--She sung as if she
admired!--The world shall not persuade me that her looks were not the
true expressions of her heart; and she looked--! Recollect her, and the
temper of mind she was in, and imagine how!--Remember--_She could love
me if I would let her!_

I was displeased with the verses when I had written them: they were
very inadequate to what I wished. I discovered in some of the lines a
barren repetition of the preceding thought, and meant to have corrected
them. But I would not now alter a word for worlds! She has deigned to
set and sing them; and what was before but of little worth is now
inestimable.

Yet am I far from satisfied with myself. My present state of mind is
disgraceful; for it cannot but be disgraceful to be kept in doubt by my
own cowardice. And if I am deceiving myself--Can it be possible,
Oliver?--But if I am, my present error is indeed alarming. The
difficulty of retreating momentarily increases, and every step in
advance will be miles in return.

Clifton will suffer no impediment from the cowardice of which I