We have lost Madame Des Roches; we were both in tears at parting; we embraced, I pressed her to my bosom:  I love her, my dear Rivers; I have an affection for her which I scarce know how to describe.  I saw her every day, I found infinite pleasure in being with her; she talked of you, she praised you, and my heart was soothed; I however found it impossible to mention your name to her; a reserve for which I cannot account; I found pleasure in looking at her from the idea that she was dear to you, that she felt for you the tenderest friendship:  do you know I think she has some resemblance of you? there is something in her smile, which gives me an idea of you.

Shall I, however, own all my folly?  I never found this pleasure in seeing her when you were present:  on the contrary, your attention to her gave me pain:  I was jealous of every look; I even saw her amiable qualities with a degree of envy, which checked the pleasure I should otherwise have found in her conversation.

There is always, I fear, some injustice mixed with love, at least with love so ardent and tender as mine.

You, my Rivers, will however pardon that injustice which is a proof of my excess of tenderness.

Madame Des Roches has promised to write to me:  indeed I will love her; I will conquer this little remain of jealousy, and do justice to the most gentle and amiable of women.

Why should I dislike her for seeing you with my eyes, for having a soul whose feelings resemble my own?

I have observed her voice is softened, and trembles like mine, when she names you.

My Rivers, you were formed to charm the heart of woman; there is more pleasure in loving you, even without the hope of a return, than in the adoration of all your sex:  I pity every woman who is so insensible as to see you without tenderness.  This is the only fault I ever found in Bell Fermor:  she has the most lively friendship for you, but she has seen you without love.  Of what materials must her heart be composed?

No other man can inspire the same sentiments with my Rivers; no other man can deserve them:  the delight of loving you appears to me so superior to all other pleasures, that, of all human beings, if I was not Emily Montague, I would be Madame Des Roches.

I blush for what I have written; yet why blush for having a soul to distinguish perfection, or why conceal the real feelings of my heart?

I will never hide a thought from you; you shall be at once the confidant and the dear object of my tenderness.

In what words—­my Rivers, you rule every emotion of my heart; dispose as you please of your Emily:  yet, if you allow her to form a wish in opposition to yours, indulge her in the transport of returning you to your friends; let her receive you from the hands of a mother, whose happiness you ought to prefer even to hers.

Why will you talk of the mediocrity of your fortune? have you not enough for every real want? much less, with you, would make your Emily blest:  what have the trappings of life to do with happiness? ’tis only sacrificing pride to love and filial tenderness; the worst of human passions to the best.