came up to your side; for a third person, of the male sex, always came between.  I will confess to you that I thought that I myself was meant by the second lady, and after this confession you will best comprehend my well-meant counsel.  To an absent friend I have promised my heart and my hand; and, until now, I loved him above all:  yet it might be possible for your presence to become more important to me than hitherto; and what kind of a situation would you have between two sisters, one of whom you had made unhappy by your affection, and the other by your coldness, and all this ado about nothing and only for a short time?  For, if we had not known already who you are and what are your expectations, the cards would have placed it before my eyes in the clearest manner.  Fare you well!” said she, and gave me her hand.  I hesitated.  “Now,” said she, leading me towards the door, “that it may really be the last time that we shall speak to each other, take what I would otherwise have denied you.”  She fell upon my neck, and kissed me most tenderly.  I embraced her, and pressed her to my bosom.

At this moment the side-door flew open; and her sister, in a light but becoming night-dress, rushed out and cried, “You shall not be the only one to take leave of him!” Emilia let me go; and Lucinda seized me, clung close to my heart, pressed her black locks upon my cheeks, and remained in this position for some time.  And thus I found myself between the two sisters, in the dilemma Emilia had prophesied to me a moment before.  Lucinda let me loose, and looked earnestly into my face.  I was about to grasp her hand and say something friendly to her; but she turned herself away, walked with violent steps up and down the room for some time, and then threw herself into a corner of the sofa.  Emilia went to her, but was immediately repulsed; and here began a scene which is yet painful to me in the recollection, and which, although really it had nothing theatrical about it, but was quite suitable to a lively young Frenchwoman, could only be properly repeated in the theatre by a good and feeling actress.

Lucinda overwhelmed her sister with a thousand reproaches.  “This is not the first heart,” she cried, “that was inclining itself to me, and that you have turned away.  Was it not just so with him who is absent, and who at last betrothed himself to you under my very eyes?  I was compelled to look on; I endured it; but I know how many thousand tears it has cost me.  This one, too, you have now taken away from me, without letting the other go; and how many do you not manage to keep at once?  I am frank and good natured; and every one thinks he knows me soon, and may neglect me.  You are secret and quiet, and people think wonders of what may be concealed behind you.  Yet there is nothing behind but a cold, selfish heart that can sacrifice every thing to itself; this nobody learns so easily, because it lies deeply hidden in your breast:  and just as little do they know of my warm, true heart, which I carry about with me as open as my face.”