fortune was a heroine, in prosperity was a mere woman, and that the native strength of her understanding was not only counteracted, but overwhelmed, by the vivacity of her temper, the fire of her genius, and the propensities of her taste. From the fairy visions of a glowing imagination, from the golden dream of the delighted senses, he repeatedly endeavoured to rouse her slumbering reason; and her boundless expenditure, her indiscriminate liberality, her expensive pursuits, and extravagant establishment, were the frequent themes of the few private conversations the perpe-. tual hurry of pleasurable engagements allowed her to grant him. Imogen sometimes answered his mild but firm remonstrances with playful raillery; sometimes with a spirited opposition, that betrayed an independence of mind revolting from the curb of every restriction unimposed by its own native sense of right; and sometimes, when the heart obtained a momentary triumph over the passions, with that open

ingenuous confession of her errors, and that lively regret for their commission, which almost expatiated the frailty it avowed, and convinced her solicitous friend that, in her abandonment of prudence, she still clung to the bosom of pure and unmodified virtue. It was during one of these interesting moments of self-condemnation, when contrite tears swam in her eyes, and vows of amendment floated on her lips, that de Sorville, though in the most delicate manner, hinted at the probable danger of her encouraging the pointed attentions of the marquis de Sancy, except she had the most unequivocal reasons for supposing them of a serious nature. Imogen started this was a singular warning from the man who in a short time was to possess so sacred and inviolable a claim to her undivided heart; and she involuntarily exclaimed,

"Of the most serious nature! Good God, sir! what do you mean by so ex"traordinary a caution?"

With a firm voice and dignified air de Sorville replied, "I mean, lady, to promote

your happiness, even though its purchase "is made by the sacrifice of my own."This it is to truly love; unworthy of the sacred name is that passion which self

ishly makes its own individual felicity "the object of its pursuit. Yes, Imogen: "I could resign you to another, though

my heart broke in the effort; but I will "confess I should not wish that other was -Harlay de Sancy. In the flowery

path of amatory dalliance few have ga"thered more laurels than your accomplished friend. But, O Imogen! that profound tenderness of which thy heart "is capable, thy heart demands-that everrenovating flush of passion thy ardent feelings require, and could bestow"dare you seek, dare you hope to find "them in a connection with the dissipated " de Sancy?"

ΕΓ

Imogen hid her face in her veil, while her heart secretly exclaimed, "Where

"dare I seek, where can I hope to find. "them ?"

Forgive me," continued the chevalier, affectionately taking her hand, if, in 'speaking from the dictates of my own "feelings, I unavoidably wound yours; "but-"

"Forgive you!" interrupted Imogen. "Oh! all despicable as I must appear in your eyes, do not think quite so lowly of

66

me as for a moment to suppose me in"sensible to the benevolence of your na"ture, or the magnanimity of your soul. "No! heaven is witness that I esteem and "reverence you above all human beings, "and that that heart which you now be

lieve the prey of every folly, throbs not "at this moment with a sentiment more warm, more tender, more profound, than "that with which you have inspired it."

My sweet friend," exclaimed the chevalier in great emotion, while delight's warm beam illumined his countenance,

my sweet friend, this is too much-it is

even more than I meant to exact from

you. I did not indeed for a moment be"lieve de Sancy had touched your heart;

for, O Imogen! I fear-I feel-the great, "the profound emotions of which that ten"der sensible heart is capable, lie yet tor

pid and unawakened. But to your ac❝tive and ardent disposition some object "of interest is indispensably requisite " and he who failed in vanquishing your "heart has captivated your imagination. "O Imogen! you are not formed for the "world in which you live; and even in "the midst of all the pleasurable but

66

empty enjoyments it can bestow, you "are all, all the slave of your imagina"tion you are bewildered, but you are "not satisfied; you are intoxicated, but

66

you are not happy." With these words, and obviously agitated, the chevalier kissed the hand he held, and hastily retired.

"I am not happy," repeated Imogen to herself; "I am not indeed happy!" and she burst into tears. "O de Sorville!