His goodness overwhelmed her. He took her mo-ther’s letter out of his pocket: she stood before him, drying her eyes, and endeavouring to suppress her emotion: and when he had unfolded the letter, he put his arm round her waist. Surely, Lucy, he is the tenderest, as well as bravest of men! What would I give for a picture drawn but with half the life and love which shone out in his looks, as he cast his eyes, now on the letter, and now up to his Emily! Poor woman! said he, two or three times, as he read; and, when he had done, You must read it, my dear, said he; there is the mother in it; we will acknowledge the mother, wherever we can find her.

Why did not the dear girl throw her arms about his neck, just then? She was ready to do so. O my best of guardians! said she; and, it was plain, was but just restrained, by virgin modesty, from doing so; her hands caught back, as it were, and rest — ing for a moment on his shoulder: and she looked as much abashed, as if she had not checked herself.

I took more notice of this her grateful motion, than any body else. I was affected with the beau-tiful check, and admired her for it.

And must I, Sir, would you have me, read it? I will retire to my chamber with it.

He rose, took her hand, and, coming with her to me, put it into mine: Be so good, madam, to for-tifV this worthy child’s heart, by your prudence and judgment, while she reads the mother^ in the only instance that I have ever known it visible in this unhappy woman.

Emily and I withdrew into the next room; and there the good girl read the letter; but it was long in reading; her tears often interrupted her: and more than once, as wanting a refuge, she threw her arms about my neck, in silent grief.

I called her twenty tender names; but I could not say much: what could I? The letter in some places affected me. It was the letter of a mother who seemed extremely sensible of hardships. Her guar-dian had promised observations upon it: I knew not then all the unhappy woman’s wickedness: I knew not but the husband might be in some fault. What could I say? I could not think of giving comfort to a daughter at the expence of even a bad mother.

Miss Grandison came to us: she kissed the sob-bing girl, and with tenderness, calling us her two loves, led us into the next room.

Sir Charles, it seems, had owned, in our absence, that Mr. and Mrs. O’Hara, and Captain Salmonet, had made him a visit in town, on their return from Colnebrook, and expressed himself to be vexed at his own behaviour to them.