My mother and Emily had by this time reached the cottage; the humanity of both was too much interested to let them pass:  they alighted, came into the house, and enquired about the child, with an air of tenderness which was not lost on the young person, whom we supposed his mother.

She appeared about two and twenty, was handsome, with an air of the world, which the plainness of her dress could not hide; her countenance was pensive, with a mixture of sensibility which instantly prejudiced us all in her favor; her look seemed to say, she was unhappy, and that she deserved to be otherwise.

Her manner was respectful, but easy and unconstrained; polite, without being servile; and she acknowledged the interest we all seemed to take in what related to her, in a manner that convinced us she deserved it.

Though every thing about us, the extreme neatness, the elegant simplicity of her house and little garden, her own person, that of the child, both perfectly genteel, her politeness, her air of the world, in a cottage like that of the meanest laborer, tended to excite the most lively curiosity; neither good-breeding, humanity, nor the respect due to those who appear unfortunate, would allow us to make any enquiries:  we left the place full of this adventure, convinced of the merit, as well as unhappiness, of its fair inhabitant, and resolved to find out, if possible, whether her misfortunes were of a kind to be alleviated, and within our little power to alleviate.

I will own to you, my dear Fitzgerald, I at that moment felt the smallness of my fortune:  and I believe Emily had the same sensations, though her delicacy prevented her naming them to me, who have made her poor.

We can talk of nothing but the stranger; and Emily is determined to call on her again to-morrow, on pretence of enquiring after the health of the child.

I tremble lest her story, for she certainly has one, should be such as, however it may entitle her to compassion, may make it impossible for Emily to shew it in the manner she seems to wish.

    Adieu! 
      Your faithful
          Ed. Rivers.

LETTER 207.

To Captain Fitzgerald.

Bellfield, Oct. 24.

We have been again at the cottage; and are more convinced than ever, that this amiable girl is not in the station in which she was born; we staid two hours, and varied the conversation in a manner which, in spite of her extreme modesty, made it impossible for her to avoid shewing she had been educated with uncommon care:  her style is correct and elegant; her sentiments noble, yet unaffected; we talked of books, she said little on the subject; but that little shewed a taste which astonished us.

Anxious as we are to know her true situation, in order, if she merits it, to endeavor to serve her, yet delicacy made it impossible for us to give the least hint of a curiosity which might make her suppose we entertained ideas to her prejudice.