In response to her parents’ wishes her aunt introduced her to her friends, took her into company, both private and public, showed her society, or rather showed her in society, for Sophy paid little heed to its bustle.  Yet it was plain that she did not shrink from young men of pleasing appearance and modest seemly behaviour.  Her very shyness had a charm of its own, which was very much like coquetry; but after talking to them once or twice she repulsed them.  She soon exchanged that air of authority which seems to accept men’s homage for a humbler bearing and a still more chilling politeness.  Always watchful over her conduct, she gave them no chance of doing her the least service; it was perfectly plain that she was determined not to accept any one of them.

Never did sensitive heart take pleasure in noisy amusements, the empty and barren delights of those who have no feelings, those who think that a merry life is a happy life.  Sophy did not find what she sought, and she felt sure she never would, so she got tired of the town.  She loved her parents dearly and nothing made up for their absence, nothing could make her forget them; she went home long before the time fixed for the end of her visit.

Scarcely had she resumed her home duties when they perceived that her temper had changed though her conduct was unaltered, she was forgetful, impatient, sad, and dreamy; she wept in secret.  At first they thought she was in love and was ashamed to own it; they spoke to her, but she repudiated the idea.  She protested she had seen no one who could touch her heart, and Sophy always spoke the truth.

Yet her languor steadily increased, and her health began to give way.  Her mother was anxious about her, and determined to know the reason for this change.  She took her aside, and with the winning speech and the irresistible caresses which only a mother can employ, she said, “My child, whom I have borne beneath my heart, whom I bear ever in my affection, confide your secret to your mother’s bosom.  What secrets are these which a mother may not know?  Who pities your sufferings, who shares them, who would gladly relieve them, if not your father and myself?  Ah, my child! would you have me die of grief for your sorrow without letting me share it?”

Far from hiding her griefs from her mother, the young girl asked nothing better than to have her as friend and comforter; but she could not speak for shame, her modesty could find no words to describe a condition so unworthy of her, as the emotion which disturbed her senses in spite of all her efforts.  At length her very shame gave her mother a clue to her difficulty, and she drew from her the humiliating confession.  Far from distressing her with reproaches or unjust blame, she consoled her, pitied her, wept over her; she was too wise to make a crime of an evil which virtue alone made so cruel.  But why put up with such an evil when there was no necessity to do so, when the remedy was so easy and so legitimate?