Extreme simplicity, and perfect innocence—­these were stamped upon the countenance, and were its charm.  It was a strange feeling that possessed me when I first gazed upon her through the chaste atmosphere that dwelt around her.  It was degradation deep and unaffected—­a sense of shame and undeservedness.  I remembered with self-abhorrence the relation that had existed between the unhappy Emma and myself, and the enormity and disgrace of my offence never looked so great as now, and here—­in the bright presence of unconscious purity.  She reassured and welcomed me with a natural smile, and pursued her occupation with quiet cheerfulness and unconstraint.  I did not wonder that her father loved her, and entertained the thought of losing her with fear; for, young and gentle as she was, she evinced wisdom and age in her deep sense of duty, and in the government of her happy home.  Method and order waited on her doings, and sweetness and tranquillity—­the ease and dignity of a matron elevating and upholding the maiden’s native modesty.  And did she not love her sire as ardently?  Yes, if her virgin soul spoke faithfully in every movement of her guileless face.  Yes, if there be truth in tones that strike the heart to thrill it—­in thoughts that write their meaning in the watchful eye, in words that issue straight from the fount of love, in acts that do not bear one shade of selfish purpose.  It was not a labour of time to learn that the existence of the child, her peace and happiness, were merged in those of the fond parent.  He was every thing to her, as she to him.  She had no brother—­he no wife:  these natural channels of affection cut away, the stream was strong and deep that flowed into each other’s hearts.  My first interview with the young lady was necessarily limited.  I would gladly have prolonged it.  The morning was passed with my pupils, and my mind stole often from the work before me to dwell upon the face and form of her, whom, as a sister, I could have doated on and cherished.  How happy I should have been, I deemed, if I had been so blessed.  Useless reflection! and yet pleased was I to dwell upon it, and to welcome its return, as often as it recurred.  At dinner we met again.  To be admitted into her presence seemed the reward for my morning toil—­a privilege rather than a right.  What labour was too great for the advantage of such moments?—­moments indeed they were, and less—­flashes of time, that were not here before they had disappeared.  We exchanged but few words.  I was still oppressed with the conviction of my own unworthiness, and wondered if she could read in my burning face the history of shame.  How she must avoid and despise me, thought I, when she has discovered all, and how bold and wicked it was to darken the light in which she lived with the guilt that was a part of me!  Not the less did I experience this when she spoke to me with kindness and unreserve.  The feeling grew in strength.  I was conscious of deceit and fraud, and could not