worldly, so base, as to feel altered towards him the moment I hear a syllable breathed against his name? Should I not, on the contrary, have clung to his image with a greater love, if he were attacked by others? But my father, my dear father, and my kind, prudent uncle, something is due to them; and they would break their hearts, if I loved one whom they deemed unworthy. Why should I not summon courage, and tell him of the suspicions respecting him? one candid word would dispel them. Surely it would be but kind in me towards him, to give him an opportunity of disproving all false and dishonouring conjectures. And why this reserve? when so often by look and hint, if not by open avowal, he has declared that he loves me, and knows, he must know, that he is not indifferent to me? Why does he never speak of his parents, his relations, his home?"
And Lucy, as she asked this question, drew from a bosom, whose hue and shape might have rivalled her's who won Cymon to be wise,[1] a draw-
- ↑ See Dryden's poem of Cymon and Iphigenia.
