to hide his ill-humour, who bears the whole burden himself, without disturbing the peace of those around him.  No:  ill-humour arises from an inward consciousness of our own want of merit, from a discontent which ever accompanies that envy which foolish vanity engenders.  We see people happy, whom we have not made so, and cannot endure the sight.”  Charlotte looked at me with a smile; she observed the emotion with which I spoke:  and a tear in the eyes of Frederica stimulated me to proceed.  “Woe unto those,” I said, “who use their power over a human heart to destroy the simple pleasures it would naturally enjoy!  All the favours, all the attentions, in the world cannot compensate for the loss of that happiness which a cruel tyranny has destroyed.”  My heart was full as I spoke.  A recollection of many things which had happened pressed upon my mind, and filled my eyes with tears.  “We should daily repeat to ourselves,” I exclaimed, “that we should not interfere with our friends, unless to leave them in possession of their own joys, and increase their happiness by sharing it with them!  But when their souls are tormented by a violent passion, or their hearts rent with grief, is it in your power to afford them the slightest consolation?

“And when the last fatal malady seizes the being whose untimely grave you have prepared, when she lies languid and exhausted before you, her dim eyes raised to heaven, and the damp of death upon her pallid brow, there you stand at her bedside like a condemned criminal, with the bitter feeling that your whole fortune could not save her; and the agonising thought wrings you, that all your efforts are powerless to impart even a moment’s strength to the departing soul, or quicken her with a transitory consolation.”

At these words the remembrance of a similar scene at which I had been once present fell with full force upon my heart.  I buried my face in my handkerchief, and hastened from the room, and was only recalled to my recollection by Charlotte’s voice, who reminded me that it was time to return home.  With what tenderness she chid me on the way for the too eager interest I took in everything!  She declared it would do me injury, and that I ought to spare myself.  Yes, my angel!  I will do so for your sake.

July 6.

She is still with her dying friend, and is still the same bright, beautiful creature whose presence softens pain, and sheds happiness around whichever way she turns.  She went out yesterday with her little sisters:  I knew it, and went to meet them; and we walked together.  In about an hour and a half we returned to the town.  We stopped at the spring I am so fond of, and which is now a thousand times dearer to me than ever.  Charlotte seated herself upon the low wall, and we gathered about her.  I looked around, and recalled the time when my heart was unoccupied and free.  “Dear fountain!” I said, “since that time I have no more come to enjoy cool repose by thy fresh stream:  I have