Oh my dear girls—­for to such only am I writing—­listen not to the voice of love, unless sanctioned by paternal approbation:  be assured, it is now past the days of romance:  no woman can be run away with contrary to her own inclination:  then kneel down each morning, and request kind heaven to keep you free from temptation, or, should it please to suffer you to be tried, pray for fortitude to resist the impulse of inclination when it runs counter to the precepts of religion and virtue.

CHAPTER VII.

Natural sense of propriety inherent in the female bosom.

“I cannot think we have done exactly right in going out this evening, Mademoiselle,” said Charlotte, seating herself when she entered her apartment:  “nay, I am sure it was not right; for I expected to be very happy, but was sadly disappointed.”

“It was your own fault, then,” replied Mademoiselle:  “for I am sure my cousin omitted nothing that could serve to render the evening agreeable.”

“True,” said Charlotte:  “but I thought the gentlemen were very free in their manner:  I wonder you would suffer them to behave as they did.”

“Prithee, don’t be such a foolish little prude,” said the artful woman, affecting anger:  “I invited you to go in hopes it would divert you, and be an agreeable change of scene; however, if your delicacy was hurt by the behaviour of the gentlemen, you need not go again; so there let it rest.”

“I do not intend to go again,” said Charlotte, gravely taking off her bonnet, and beginning to prepare for bed:  “I am sure, if Madame Du Pont knew we had been out to-night, she would be very angry; and it is ten to one but she hears of it by some means or other.”

“Nay, Miss,” said La Rue, “perhaps your mighty sense of propriety may lead you to tell her yourself:  and in order to avoid the censure you would incur, should she hear of it by accident, throw the blame on me:  but I confess I deserve it:  it will be a very kind return for that partiality which led me to prefer you before any of the rest of the ladies; but perhaps it will give you pleasure,” continued she, letting fall some hypocritical tears, “to see me deprived of bread, and for an action which by the most rigid could only be esteemed an inadvertency, lose my place and character, and be driven again into the world, where I have already suffered all the evils attendant on poverty.”

This was touching Charlotte in the most vulnerable part:  she rose from her seat, and taking Mademoiselle’s hand—­“You know, my dear La Rue,” said she, “I love you too well, to do anything that would injure you in my governess’s opinion:  I am only sorry we went out this evening.”

“I don’t believe it, Charlotte,” said she, assuming a little vivacity; “for if you had not gone out, you would not have seen the gentleman who met us crossing the field; and I rather think you were pleased with his conversation.”