I may justly call that time an absence, my dear Aza, which is elapsed since the last letter I ever wrote to you.

Some days after the conversation which I had with Deterville, I fell into a disorder which is here called a fever. If, as I believe, it was caused by the dolorous passions which then agitated me; I have no doubt but the continuance has been the longer, for the sad reflections that have since occupied my mind, and the regret which I have felt at having lost the friendship of Celina.

Though she seemed concerned at my disorder, and took of me all imaginable care, yet it was with such an air of indifference, and so little sympathy for my afflictions, that I have no doubt but her sentiments, with regard to me, are entirely changed. The extreme friendship she has for her brother, sets her against me; and she continually reproaches me for having rendered him unhappy. The fear of appearing ungrateful intimidates me. The affected kindness of Celina only tortures me: Every thing that is soft and agreeable is banished from our conversation, and restraint has taken their places.

But, notwithstanding all that I feel through the brother and sister's means, I am not unaffected with the fortunate events by which their destiny is changed.

Madame Deterville is dead. This unnatural mother has kept up her character to the last, by leaving her whole fortune to her eldest son. But there are great hopes that the law will set aside this unjust bequest.

Deterville, though quite disinterested with regard to himself, neglects nothing that may save Celina from oppression. Her misfortunes seem to increase his friendship for her; he not only visits her every day, but writes to her morning and night; his letters are filled with tender complaints against me, and such anxious solicitude for my health, that though Celina in reading them to me, only makes a pretence of informing me of their own affairs, I can easily see the real motive.