“His assiduity and obtrusion ought to alarm you.  You well know what his character has been.  Marriage has not changed his disposition.  It is only a cloak which conceals it.  Trust him not, then, my dear Eliza; if you do, depend upon it you will find his professions of friendship to be mere hypocrisy and deceit.  I fear that he is acting over again the same unworthy arts which formerly misled you.  Beware of his wiles.  Your friends are anxious for you.  They tremble at your professed regard and apparent intimacy with that unprincipled man.”  “My friends,” said she, “are very jealous of me lately.  I know not how I have forfeited their confidence, or incurred their suspicion.”  “By encouraging that attention,” I warmly replied, “and receiving those caresses, from a married man which are due from him to none but his wife.  He is a villain if he deceived her into marriage by insincere professions of love.  If he had then an affection for her, and has already discarded it, he is equally guilty.  Can you expect sincerity from the man who withholds it from an amiable and deserving wife?  No, Eliza; it is not love which induces him to entertain you with the subject.  It is a baser passion; and if you disdain not his artifice, if you listen to his flattery, you will, I fear, fall a victim to his evil machinations.  If he conducted like a man of honor, he would merit your esteem; but his behavior is quite the reverse:  yet, vile as he is, he would not dare to lisp his insolent hopes of your regard if you punished his presumption with the indignation it deserves; if you spurned from your presence the ungrateful wretch who would requite your condescension by triumphing in your ruin.”

She now burst into tears, and begged me to drop the subject.  Her mind, she said, was racked by her own reflections.  She could bear but little.  Kindness deceived, and censure distressed her.

I assured her of my good intentions; that, as I saw her danger, I thought it a duty of the friendship and affection I bore her solemnly to warn her against it before we parted.  We talked over the matter more calmly, till she professed herself resolved in future to avoid his company, and reject his insinuations.

The next day, as I walked out, I met Major Sanford.  He accosted me very civilly.  I barely bade him good morning, and passed on.

I made it in my way to call at his house, and bid Mrs. Sanford adieu; not expecting another opportunity equally favorable.  When I entered the parlor, she was playing a melancholy air on the harpsichord.  She rose, and gave me a polite and graceful reception.  I told her, as I was soon to leave the town, I called to take my leave of her—­a compliment which her attention to me required.  “Are you going to leave us then, Miss Granby?” said she.  “I shall regret your departure exceedingly.  I have so few friends in this part of the country, that it will give me sensible pain to part with one I so highly value.”