The next day I had not courage to go there.  The third day, early in the morning, Emilia sent me word by a boy,—­who had already brought me many a message from the sisters, and had carried back flowers and fruits to them in return,—­that I should not fail that day.  I came at the usual hour, and found the father alone, who, in many respects, improved my paces and steps, my goings and comings, my bearing and behavior, and, moreover, seemed to be satisfied with me.  The younger daughter came in towards the end of the hour, and danced with me a very graceful minuet, in which her movements were extraordinarily pleasing, and her father declared that he had rarely seen a prettier and more nimble pair upon his floor.  After the lesson, I went as usual into the sitting-room; the father left us alone; I missed Lucinda.  “She is in bed,” said Emilia, “and I am glad of it:  do not be concerned about it.  Her mental illness is first alleviated when she fancies herself bodily sick:  she does not like to die, and therefore she then does what we wish.  We have certain family medicines which she takes, and reposes; and thus, by degrees, the swelling waves subside.  She is indeed too good and amiable in such an imaginary sickness; and as she is in reality very well, and is only attacked by passion, she imagines various kinds of romantic deaths, with which she frightens herself in a pleasant manner, like children when we tell them ghost-stories.  Thus, only last night, she announced to me with great vehemence, that this time she should certainly die; and that only when she was really near death, they should bring again before her the ungrateful, false friend, who had at first acted so handsomely to her, and now treated her so ill; she would reproach him bitterly, and then give up the ghost.”—­“I know not that I am guilty,” exclaimed I, “of having expressed any sort of affection for her.  I know somebody who can best bear me witness in this respect.”  Emilia smiled, and rejoined, “I understand you; and, if we are not discreet and determined, we shall all find ourselves in a bad plight together.  What will you say if I entreat you not to continue your lessons?  You have, I believe, four tickets yet of the last month:  and my father has already declared that he finds it inexcusable to take your money any longer, unless you wish to devote yourself to the art of dancing in a more serious manner; what is required by a young man of the world you possess already.”—­“And do you, Emilia, give me this advice, to avoid your house?” replied I.  “Yes, I do,” said she, “but not of myself.  Only listen!  When you hastened away, the day before yesterday, I had the cards cut for you; and the same response was repeated thrice, and each time more emphatically.  You were surrounded by every thing good and pleasing, by friends and great lords; and there was no lack of money.  The ladies kept themselves at some distance.  My poor sister in particular stood always the farthest off:  one other advanced constantly nearer to you, but never