bourne has for you an affection that but few sons have for their father. He admires, he understands you; and confidence on your part, and return, will make him your affectionate and devoted child. I sometimes hope that it will be so, for my sake. You will grieve together over my loss; and grief subdues and draws those who share it together.
And now, dearest father, for what I long, yet dread to say. Norbourne is young; he will, I believe, I hope, marry again. May she whom he marries be to you as a daughter! Let her be such: you can make any one love you whom you choose. I have long felt that it was your influence over my cousin that made me his wife; for he never loved me. Do not start at this: I was a child when I married—a child in every thing but my passionate love; but I grew to womanhood rapidly. I seem to have lived years, so much have I thought and felt during the last few months. I have learnt the secret of others from my own heart, and that taught me that my cousin had for me only
