shall I support this burden.  See you not, Julia, my decaying frame, my faded cheek, and tottering limbs?  Soon shall I be insensible to censure and reproach.  Soon shall I be sequestered in that mansion ’where the wicked cease from troubling, and where the weary are at rest.’” “Rest!” said I; “can you expect to find rest, either in this world or another, with such a weight of guilt on your head?” She exclaimed, with great emotion, “Add not to the upbraidings of a wounded spirit.  Have pity upon me, O my friend, have pity upon me.  Could you know what I suffer, you would think me sufficiently punished.”  “I wish you no other punishment,” said I, “than what may effect your repentance and reformation.  But your mother, Eliza!  She cannot long be ignorant of your fall; and I tremble to think of her distress.  It will break her widowed heart.  How has she loved, how has she doted upon you!  Dreadful is the requital which you have made.”  “My mother,” rejoined she, “O, name her not!  The very sound is distraction to me.  O my Julia, if your heart be not shut against mercy and compassion towards me, aid me through this trying scene.  Let my situation call forth your pity, and induce you, undeserving as I am, to exert it in my behalf.”

During this time, I had walked the chamber.  My spirits had been raised above their natural key, and were exhausted.  I sat down, but thought I should have fainted, till a copious flood of tears gave me relief.  Eliza was extremely affected.  The appearance of calamity which she exhibited would have softened the most obdurate anger.  Indeed, I feared some immediate and fatal effect.  I therefore seated myself beside her; and assuming an air of kindness, “Compose yourself, Eliza,” said I; “I repeat what I told you before—­it is the purest friendship which thus interests me in your concerns.  This, under the direction of charity, induces me again to offer you my hand.  Yet you have erred against knowledge and reason, against warning and counsel.  You have forfeited the favor of your friends, and reluctant will be their forgiveness.”  “I plead guilty,” said she, “to all your charges.  From the general voice I expect no clemency.  If I can make my peace with my mother, it is all I seek or wish on this side the grave.  In your benevolence I confide for this.  In you I hope to find an intercessor.  By the remembrance of our former affection and happiness, I conjure you, refuse me not At present, I entreat you to conceal from her this distressing tale.  A short, reprieve is all I ask.”  “Why,” said I, “should you defer it?  When the painful task is over, you may find relief in her lenient kindness.”  “After she knows my condition, I cannot see her,” resumed she, “till I am assured of her forgiveness.  I have not strength to support the appearance of her anger and grief.  I will write to her what I cannot speak.  You must bear the melancholy message, and plead for me, that her displeasure may not follow me to the grave, whither I am rapidly hastening.”