He was excessively tender and soothing to me, in his air, his voice, his manner.  I thought of what Emily said; that his voice, when he spoke of me, was the voice of love.  Dear flattering girl!—­But why did she flatter me?

We talked of her next.  He spoke of her with the tenderness of a father.  He besought me to love her.  He praised her heart.

Emily, said I, venerates her guardian.  She never will do any thing contrary to his advice.

She is very young, replied he.  She will be happy, madam, in yours.  She both loves and reverences you.

I greatly love the dear Emily, sir.  She and I shall be always sisters.

How happy am I, in your goodness to her!  Permit me, madam, to enumerate to you my own felicities in that of my dearest friends.

Mr. Beauchamp is now in the agreeable situation I have long wished him to be in.  His prudence and obliging behaviour to his mother-in-law, have won her.  His father grants him every thing through her; and she, by this means, finds that power enlarged which she was afraid would be lessened, if the son were allowed to come over.  How just is this reward of his filial duty!

Thus, Lucy, did he give up the merit to his Beauchamp, which was solely due to himself.

Lord W——­, he hoped, would be soon one of the happiest men in England:  and the whole Mansfield family had now fair prospects opening before them.

Emily [not he, you see] had made it the interest of her mother to be quiet.

Lord and Lady L——­ gave him pleasure whenever he saw them, or thought of them.

Dr. Bartlett was in heaven, while on earth.  He would retire to his beloved Grandison-hall, and employ himself in distributing, as objects offered, at least a thousand pounds of the three thousand bequeathed to charitable uses by his late friend Mr. Danby.  His sister’s fortune was paid.  His estates in both kingdoms were improving.—­See, madam, said he, how like the friend of my soul I claim your attention to affairs that are of consequence to myself; and in some of which your generosity of heart has interested you.

I bowed.  Had I spoken, I had burst into tears.  I had something arose in my throat, I know not what.  Still, thought I, excellent man, you are not yourself happy!—­O pity! pity!  Yet, Lucy, he plainly had been enumerating all these things, to take off from my mind that impression which I am afraid he too well knows it is affected with, from his difficult situation.

And now, madam, resumed he, how are all my dear and good friends, whom you more particularly call yours?—­I hope to have the honour of a personal knowledge of them.  When heard you of our good Mr. Deane?  He is well, I hope.

Very well, Sir.

Your grandmamma Shirley, that ornament of advanced years?

I bowed:  I dared not to trust my voice.

Your excellent aunt, Selby?

I bowed again.