Yet, sir, replied she, I have read that a union of hearts as well as hands is necessary for the felicity of that state;—­that there ought to be a simpathy of soul between them, and a perfect confidence in each other, before the indissoluble knot is tied:—­and this, according to my notion, can only be the result of a long acquaintance and accompanied with many proofs of affection on both sides.

Were all young women to think as you do, said he with a smile, we would have much fewer marriages; they would indeed be happier; therefore I am far from condemning your precaution, nor would wish you should give yourself to one till well assured he was incapable of treating you with less regard after marriage than before:—­no, no, Louisa, I will never press you to become a wife, till you shall yourself acknowledge the man I offer to you as a husband is not unworthy of that title, thro’ a want of honour, fortune, or affection.

As Louisa thought this must be the work of time, the chagrin she felt at the first mention of marriage was greatly dissipated; and she told him, that when she was once convinced such a person as he described honoured her so far as to think she merited his affection, she would do all in her power to return it.

The enamoured Dorilaus having now brought her to the point he aimed at, thought it best to throw off the mark at once, and leave her no longer in suspence.—­Behold then in me, said he, the person I have mentioned:  nor think me vain in ascribing those merits to myself which I would wish to be the loadstone of your affection.—­My honour, I believe, you will not call in question:—­my humour you have never found capricious, or difficult to please; and as for my love, you cannot but allow the conquering that aversion, which myself, as well as all the world, believed unalterable for a marriage state; besides a thousand other scruples opposed my entering into it with you, is a proof greater than almost any other man could give you.—­There requires, therefore, my dear Louisa, no time to convince you of what I am, or assure you of what I may be; and I hope the affection you bore me, as a faithful friend, and the protector of your innocence, will not be diminished on my making this declaration.

The confusion in which this speech involved her is even impossible to be conceived, much less can any words come up to its description:  she blushed;—­she trembled;—­she was ready to die between surprize, grief and shame:—­fain she would have spoke, but feared, lest what she should say would either lose his friendship or encourage his passion.—­Each seemed equally dreadful to her:—­no words presented themselves to her distracted mind that she could think proper to utter, till he pressing her several times to reply, and seeming a little to resent her silence—­Oh! sir, cried she, how is it possible for me to make any answer to so strange a proposition!—­you were not used to rally my simplicity; nor can I think you mean what you now