throw aside my letter?—­Undoubtedly you did.—­Go, you said.—­I am sure, dear Madam, you must let me not again behold the weakness of that poor silly girl.—­But this is my hope, you are not apt to judge unfavourably, even in circumstances that will scarce admit of palliation.—­Tell me, my dear Lady, I am pardoned; tell me so, and I shall never be again unhappy.—­How charming, to have peace and tranquility restor’d, when I fear’d they were for ever banish’d my breast!—­I welcomed the friends;—­my heart bounded at their return;—­I smiled on them;—­soothed them;—­and promised never more to drive them out.

Thank you, Lord Allen;—­again, I thank you:—­can I ever be too grateful?—­You have been instrumental to my repose.

The company that dined at the Abbey yesterday were Lord and Lady Allen, Lord Baily, Mr. Mrs. and Miss Winter.—­This was the first day I changed my mourning;—­a white lutestring, with the fine suit of rough garnets your Ladyship gave me, was my dress on the occasion.—­But let me proceed to the incident for which I stand indebted for the secret tranquility, the innate repose I now possess in a superlative degree.—­

When I went to Mr. Jenkings’s to dress for dinner, Lord Darcey attended me, as usual:—­the coach was to fetch us.—­I thought I never saw his Lordship in such high good humour; what I mean is, I never saw him in such spirits.—­To speak the truth, his temper always appears unruffled;—­sometimes a little gloomy; but I suppose he is not exempted from the common ills of life.—­He entertained me on the way with a description of the company expected, interlarding his conversation with observations tending to raise my vanity.  Notwithstanding his seeming sincerity, I was proof against such insinuations.—­If he had stopp’d there,—­well, if he had stop’d there;—­what then?—­Why then, perhaps, I should not have betray’d the weakness of my heart.—­But I hope thy confusion pass’d unobserv’d;—­I hope it was not seen before I could draw my handkerchief from my pocket:  if it should, heavens! the very thought has dyed me scarlet.

I am running on as though your Ladyship had been present in Mr. Jenkings’s parlour,—­in the coach,—­and at table, whither I must conduct you, my dear Lady, if your patience will bear a minute recital.—­First, then, to our conference in the parlour, after I was dress’d.

My coming down interrupted a tete-a-tete between his Lordship and Edmund.  The latter withdrew soon after I entered;—­it look’d some-how as if designed;—­it vexed me;—­mean it how he would, it much disconcerted me:—­I hate, I despise the least appearance of design.—­In vain did I attempt to bring him back; he only answer’d he would be with us instantly.

I was no sooner seated, than his Lordship placed himself by me; and fetching a deep sigh, said, I wish it was in my power to oblige Miss Warley as much as it is in hers to oblige me.—­