Miss St. Clare to Deterville.

I write with pleasure, my dear friend, because I am convinced you will receive infinite, by the contents of this letter. Zilia indeed loves; her own lips have confessed it. For some time after the conversation, of which I sent you an account, she avoided being alone with me. This behaviour grieved me, and I reproached myself, with having said any thing which gave occasion for it: the making an apology was aukward, and I knew not well how to begin it; but she spared me the trouble: for one evening, asking me to walk with her in the grove, where you, and all our little party of friends, have been so often pleased with each other, some reflections on those past times, opened the conversation, which she began.

Here, says she, my Maria, I think I have enjoyed the happiest hours since I left Peru; indeed, I may say happier than any I ever spent there; for I was then happy only in my ignorance; but here my enlightened mind, first learnt those truths, which restored peace to it, after its being so long a stranger to my soul. And here, replied I, my dear Zilia, may you long enjoy, that peace which your virtues have procured you.

Alas! said she, happiness flies me; I fear I shall never overtake it. Since you are disengaged from your tender cares, my dear, replied I, I was in hopes there was nothing could prevent your happiness: but I have already been impertinent, and will not repeat my fault.

Indeed, my good friend, returned she, I am capricious; I am conscious I have not behaved well to you; your friendship will make kind allowances for it. I would fain hide that from myself, which I cannot conceal from you.