with Lady Marchmont; and I learnt that my wretchedness had been vain. But not with my jealousy of her, who was afterwards my dear and true friend, did the knowledge depart that such jealousy had brought. I could not observe Norbourne's feelings without perceiving how different they were to mine. There was an anxiety about his kindness, which too often appeared as if it had something to make up to its object.
From discovering that he did not love me, it was but a step to finding that he loved another. I have watched him read, first earnestly; then the page has been closed unconsciously, and he remained lost in a gloomy reverie. I have opened the volume when he left the room, and found that the record was of ill-placed affection. Often have I noted how he shrank away from any conversation that turned on those tender, yet deep sentiments on which I could have talked to him for ever: and, alas!—worst of all to bear—I have bent over his feverish and troubled sleep: there was
