I sat down with my baby on my lap, looking, I believe, with a righteous boldness (I will call it so; for well says the text, "The righteous is as bold as a lion,”) now on my Billy, now on his papa, and now on the Countess, with such a triumph in my heart; for I saw her blush, and look down, and the dear gentleman seemed to eye me with a kind of conscious tenderness, as I thought.

A silence of five minutes, I believe, succeeded, we all four looking upon one another; and the little dear was awake, and stared full upon me, with such innocent smiles, as if he promised to love me, and make me amends for all.

I kissed him, and took his pretty little hand in mine—­“You are very good, my charmer, in this company!” said I.

I remembered a scene, which made greatly for me in the papers you have seen, when, instead of recriminating, as I might have done, before Mr. Longman for harsh usage (for, O my lady, your dear brother has a hard heart indeed when he pleases), I only prayed for him on my knees.

And I hope I was not now too mean; for I had dignity and a proud superiority in my vain heart, over them all.  Then it was not my part to be upon defiances, where I loved, and where I hoped to reclaim.  Besides, what had I done by that, but justified, seemingly, by after acts in a passionate resentment, to their minds, at least, their too wicked treatment of me?—­Moreover, your ladyship will remember, that Mr. B. knew not that I was acquainted with his intrigue:  for I must call it so.  If he had, he is too noble to insult me by such a visit; and he had told me, I should see the lady he was at Oxford with.

And this, breaking silence, he mentioned; saying, “I gave you hope, my dear, that I should procure you the honour of a visit from a lady who put herself under my care at Oxford.”

I bowed my head to the Countess; but my tears being ready to start, I kissed my Billy:  “Dearest baby,” said I, “you are not going to cry, are you?”—­I would have had him just then to cry, instead of me.

The tea equipage was brought in.  “Polly, carry the child to nurse.”  I gave it another kiss, and the Countess desired another.  I grudged it, to think her naughty lips should so closely follow mine.  Her sister kissed it also, and carried him to Mr. B.  “Take him away,” said he, “I owe him my blessing.”

“O these young gentlemen papas!” said the Countess—­“They are like young unbroken horses, just put into the traces!”

—­“Are they so?” thought I.  “Matrimony must not expect your good word, I doubt.”

Mr. B. after tea, at which I was far from being talkative (for I could not tell what to say, though I tried, as much as I could not to appear sullen), desired the Countess to play one tune upon the harpsichord.—­She did, and sung, at his request, an Italian song to it very prettily; too prettily, I thought.  I wanted to find some faults, some great faults in her:  but, O Madam, she has too many outward excellencies!—­pity she wants a good heart.