my eyes were riveted on her, my soul absorbed, and the faculty of
thinking arrested. Every look of her beaming eyes penetrated to the
heart, every motion of her moist coral lips gave exstacy, and every
variation of her features discovered new ineffable and angelic
beauties!

Why did the hours fly? Why was the day so short? She had only passed
through Oxford in her way to London, and was to depart in the morning.
I would gladly have persuaded her to regard her health, and not expose
herself so soon after the fright; but in vain. She felt no malady, nor
would acknowledge any; and the selfish Hector was rather inclined to
hurry her off than invite her to stay. It was years since I had seen
her, and to be torn thus suddenly from bliss unutterable? Never had I
felt a pang like this before!

In the evening, returned to my chamber and left in solitude, I sat
with my arms folded, disconsolate, motionless, and in a profound but
yet a most active trance. I remained thus for hours, ardently thinking
on Olivia, recollecting every incident of my past life in which she
had had the least part, placing all her divine perfections full in
view, and unable to detach my mind one moment from the beatific
vision.

At length by accident, I cast my eye on two books, that lay on the
mantle-piece before me: Baxter's Call to the Unconverted, and the
History of Francis Spira: two of the most terrific productions, to
such a mind at such a moment, that ever the ravings of fanaticism sent
forth. The impulse was irresistible; I opened them, read, and all
the horrors of hell came upon me. I was a backslider! Perdition was
certain! All the torments that Baxter described were devouring me, and