Yet, with respect to Frank, I fear this principle has led me into an
error. Among other escapes of this kind, there is one which has lately
befallen me, and for which I doubt I am reprehensible.

Frank has written a song, in which his feelings and situation are very
strongly expressed. He left it on my music desk, by accident; for his
character is too open, too determined, to submit to artifice. The words
pleased me, I may say affected me, so very much that I was tempted to
endeavour to adapt an air to them; which, when it was written, I
several times repeated, and accompanied myself on the piano-forte. Your
brother came in just as I had ended; and, from a hint which he
purposely gave, I suspect that Frank had been listening in the
antichamber.

The behaviour of Frank afterward confirmed the supposition. He followed
your brother, and sat down while we conversed. His whole soul seemed
absorbed; but not, as I have sometimes seen it, in melancholy.
Satisfaction, pleasure, I know not whether rapture would be too strong
a word for the expressions which were discoverable in his countenance.

My own mind had the moment before been impassioned; and the same
sensations thrilling as it were through my veins might mislead me, and
induce me to suppose things that had no existence. Still I do not think
I was mistaken. And if not, what have I done? Have I not thoughtlessly
betrayed him into a belief that I mean to favour a passion which I
should think it criminal to encourage?

I know not why I delay so long to explain my sentiments. It is the weak
fear of not doing justice to my cause; of not convincing, and of making