Delia, as we have already said, was endowed with a competent share of natural understanding.  She therefore easily perceived, that from an anger so boisterous and so public, no very fatal effects were to be apprehended.  This reflection quieted the terrors that her dream had excited, and which the young partiality she began to feel for the amiable stranger would otherwise have confirmed.  Her breast being thus calmed, she made about half a dozen morning visits, among which, one to Miss Griskin, and another to Miss Languish, were included.  The conversation every where turned upon the outrageousness of lord Martin.  All but the gentle Delia, were full of anxiety and expectation.  The females were broken into parties respecting the event of the duel.  Many trembled for the fate of lord Martin, so splendid, so rich, and consequently, in their opinion, so amiable and so witty.  Others, guided by the unadulterated sentiments of nature, poured forth all their vows for the courteous unknown.  “May those active limbs remain without a wound!  May his elegant blue and silver never be stained with blood!  Ah, what a pity, that eyes so bright, and teeth so white, should be shrowded in the darkness of the grave.”

The dinner, a vulgar meal, that passed exactly in the same manner as fifty dinners had before it, shall be consigned to silence.  The evening was bright and calm.  It was in the close of autumn; and every thing tempted our lovely fair one to take the air.  By the way she called upon her inseparable friend and companion.  They directed their course towards the sea side.

Here they had not advanced far, before they entered a grove, a spot particularly the favourite of Delia.  In a little opening there was a bank embroidered with daisies and butter-cups; a little row of willows bending their heads forward, formed a kind of canopy; and directly before it, there was a vista through the trees, which afforded a distant prospect of the sea, with every here and there a vessel passing along, and the beams of the setting sun quivered on the waves.

Delia and her companion advanced towards the well known spot.  The mellow voice of the thrush, and the clear pipe of the blackbird, diversified at intervals with the tender notes of the nightingale, formed the most agreable natural concert.  The breast of Delia, framed for softness and melancholy, was filled with sensations responsive to the objects around her, and even the eternal clack of Miss Fletcher was still.

Presently, however, a new and unexpected object claimed their attention.  A note, stronger and sweeter than that of any of the native choristers of the grove, swelled upon the air, and floated towards them.  Having approached a few paces, they stood still to listen.  It seemed to proceed from a flute, played upon by a human voice.  The air was melancholy, but the skill was divine.