She had once, or twice, told her little secrets to her mother; they were laughed at, and she determined never to do it again.  In this manner was she left to reflect on her own feelings; and so strengthened were they by being meditated on, that her character early became singular and permanent.  Her understanding was strong and clear, when not clouded by her feelings; but she was too much the creature of impulse, and the slave of compassion.

CHAP.  III.

Near her father’s house lived a poor widow, who had been brought up in affluence, but reduced to great distress by the extravagance of her husband; he had destroyed his constitution while he spent his fortune; and dying, left his wife, and five small children, to live on a very scanty pittance.  The eldest daughter was for some years educated by a distant relation, a Clergyman.  While she was with him a young gentleman, son to a man of property in the neighbourhood, took particular notice of her.  It is true, he never talked of love; but then they played and sung in concert; drew landscapes together, and while she worked he read to her, cultivated her taste, and stole imperceptibly her heart.  Just at this juncture, when smiling, unanalyzed hope made every prospect bright, and gay expectation danced in her eyes, her benefactor died.  She returned to her mother—­the companion of her youth forgot her, they took no more sweet counsel together.  This disappointment spread a sadness over her countenance, and made it interesting.  She grew fond of solitude, and her character appeared similar to Mary’s, though her natural disposition was very different.

She was several years older than Mary, yet her refinement, her taste, caught her eye, and she eagerly sought her friendship:  before her return she had assisted the family, which was almost reduced to the last ebb; and now she had another motive to actuate her.

As she had often occasion to send messages to Ann, her new friend, mistakes were frequently made; Ann proposed that in future they should be written ones, to obviate this difficulty, and render their intercourse more agreeable.  Young people are mostly fond of scribbling; Mary had had very little instruction; but by copying her friend’s letters, whose hand she admired, she soon became a proficient; a little practice made her write with tolerable correctness, and her genius gave force to it.  In conversation, and in writing, when she felt, she was pathetic, tender and persuasive; and she expressed contempt with such energy, that few could stand the flash of her eyes.

As she grew more intimate with Ann, her manners were softened, and she acquired a degree of equality in her behaviour:  yet still her spirits were fluctuating, and her movements rapid.  She felt less pain on account of her mother’s partiality to her brother, as she hoped now to experience the pleasure of being beloved; but this hope led her into new sorrows, and, as usual, paved the way for disappointment.  Ann only felt gratitude; her heart was entirely engrossed by one object, and friendship could not serve as a substitute; memory officiously retraced past scenes, and unavailing wishes made time loiter.