Louisa had all this time seemed like one in a dream:—­she had ever loved Dorilaus with a filial affection; and to find herself really his daughter, to be snatched at once from all those cares which attend penury, when accompanied with virtue, and an abhorrence of entering into measures inconsistent with the strictest honour, to be relieved from every want, and in a station which commanded respect and homage, was such a surcharge of felicity, that she was less able to support than all the fatigues she had gone thro’—­Surprize and joy made her appear more dull and stupid than she had ever been in her whole life before; and Dorilaus was obliged to repeat all he had said over and over again, to bring her into her usual composedness, and enable her to give him the satisfaction he required.

But as soon as she had, by degrees, recollected herself, she modestly related all that had happened to her from the time she left him;—­the methods by which she endeavoured to earn her bread,—­the insults she was exposed to at mrs.  C—­l—­ge’s;—­the way she came acquainted with Melanthe;—­the kindness shown her by that lady;—­their travels together;—­the base stratagem made use of by count de Bellfleur to ruin her with that lady—­the honourable position monsieur du Plessis had professed for her;—­the seasonable assistance he had given her, in that iminent danger she was in from the count’s unlawful designs upon her;—­his placing her afterwards in the monastry,—­the treachery of the abbess;—­the artifice she had been obliged to make use of to get out of the nunnery;—­her pilgrimage;—­in fine, concealed no part of her adventures, only that which related to the passion she had for du Plessis, which she endeavoured, as much as she could, to disguise, under the names of gratitude for the obligations he had conferred upon her, and admiration of his virtue, so different from what she had found in others who had addressed her.

Dorilaus, however, easily perceived the tenderness with which she was agitated on the account of that young gentleman, but he would not excite her blushes by taking any notice of it, especially as he found nothing to condemn in it, and had observed, throughout the course of her whole narrative, she had behaved on other occasions with a discretion far above her years, he was far from wronging her, by suspecting she had swerved from it in this.

But when he heard the vast journey she had come on foot, he was in the utmost amazement at her fortitude, and told her he was resolved to keep her pilgrim’s habit as a relique, to preserve to after-ages the memory of an adventure, which had really something more marvellous in it than many set down as miracles.

And now having fully gratified his own curiosity in all he wanted to be informed of, he thought proper to case the impatience she was in to know the history of her birth, and on what occasion it had been so long concealed, which he did in these or the like words: