He stopped, as Mary seemed lost in thought; but as she was still in a listening attitude, continued his little narrative.  “I kept up an irregular correspondence with my mother; my brother’s extravagance and ingratitude had almost broken her heart, and made her feel something like a pang of remorse, on account of her behaviour to me.  I hastened to comfort her—­and was a comfort to her.

“My declining health prevented my taking orders, as I had intended; but I with warmth entered into literary pursuits; perhaps my heart, not having an object, made me embrace the substitute with more eagerness.  But, do not imagine I have always been a die-away swain.  No:  I have frequented the cheerful haunts of men, and wit!—­enchanting wit! has made many moments fly free from care.  I am too fond of the elegant arts; and woman—­lovely woman! thou hast charmed me, though, perhaps, it would not be easy to find one to whom my reason would allow me to be constant.

“I have now only to tell you, that my mother insisted on my spending this winter in a warmer climate; and I fixed on Lisbon, as I had before visited the Continent.”  He then looked Mary full in the face; and, with the most insinuating accents, asked “if he might hope for her friendship?  If she would rely on him as if he was her father; and that the tenderest father could not more anxiously interest himself in the fate of a darling child, than he did in her’s.”

Such a crowd of thoughts all at once rushed into Mary’s mind, that she in vain attempted to express the sentiments which were most predominant.  Her heart longed to receive a new guest; there was a void in it:  accustomed to have some one to love, she was alone, and comfortless, if not engrossed by a particular affection.

Henry saw her distress, and not to increase it, left the room.  He had exerted himself to turn her thoughts into a new channel, and had succeeded; she thought of him till she began to chide herself for defrauding the dead, and, determining to grieve for Ann, she dwelt on Henry’s misfortunes and ill health; and the interest he took in her fate was a balm to her sick mind.  She did not reason on the subject; but she felt he was attached to her:  lost in this delirium, she never asked herself what kind of an affection she had for him, or what it tended to; nor did she know that love and friendship are very distinct; she thought with rapture, that there was one person in the world who had an affection for her, and that person she admired—­had a friendship for.

He had called her his dear girl; the words might have fallen from him by accident; but they did not fall to the ground.  My child!  His child, what an association of ideas!  If I had had a father, such a father!—­She could not dwell on the thoughts, the wishes which obtruded themselves.  Her mind was unhinged, and passion unperceived filled her whole soul.  Lost, in waking dreams, she considered and reconsidered Henry’s account of himself; till she actually thought she would tell Ann—­a bitter recollection then roused her out of her reverie; and aloud she begged forgiveness of her.