“Woman, fragile flower! why were you suffered to adorn a world exposed to the inroad of such stormy elements?” thought Maria, while the poor maniac’s strain was still breathing on her ear, and sinking into her very soul.

Towards the evening, Jemima brought her Rousseau’s Heloise; and she sat reading with eyes and heart, till the return of her guard to extinguish the light.  One instance of her kindness was, the permitting Maria to have one, till her own hour of retiring to rest.  She had read this work long since; but now it seemed to open a new world to her—­the only one worth inhabiting.  Sleep was not to be wooed; yet, far from being fatigued by the restless rotation of thought, she rose and opened her window, just as the thin watery clouds of twilight made the long silent shadows visible.  The air swept across her face with a voluptuous freshness that thrilled to her heart, awakening indefinable emotions; and the sound of a waving branch, or the twittering of a startled bird, alone broke the stillness of reposing nature.  Absorbed by the sublime sensibility which renders the consciousness of existence felicity, Maria was happy, till an autumnal scent, wafted by the breeze of morn from the fallen leaves of the adjacent wood, made her recollect that the season had changed since her confinement; yet life afforded no variety to solace an afflicted heart.  She returned dispirited to her couch, and thought of her child till the broad glare of day again invited her to the window.  She looked not for the unknown, still how great was her vexation at perceiving the back of a man, certainly he, with his two attendants, as he turned into a side-path which led to the house!  A confused recollection of having seen somebody who resembled him, immediately occurred, to puzzle and torment her with endless conjectures.  Five minutes sooner, and she should have seen his face, and been out of suspense—­was ever any thing so unlucky!  His steady, bold step, and the whole air of his person, bursting as it were from a cloud, pleased her, and gave an outline to the imagination to sketch the individual form she wished to recognize.

Feeling the disappointment more severely than she was willing to believe, she flew to Rousseau, as her only refuge from the idea of him, who might prove a friend, could she but find a way to interest him in her fate; still the personification of Saint Preux, or of an ideal lover far superior, was after this imperfect model, of which merely a glance had been caught, even to the minutiae of the coat and hat of the stranger.  But if she lent St. Preux, or the demi-god of her fancy, his form, she richly repaid him by the donation of all St. Preux’s sentiments and feelings, culled to gratify her own, to which he seemed to have an undoubted right, when she read on the margin of an impassioned letter, written in the well-known hand—­“Rousseau alone, the true Prometheus of sentiment, possessed the fire of genius necessary to pourtray the passion, the truth of which goes so directly to the heart.”