Our fair heroine, having ended the foregoing soliloquy, took up the letter, and gave it to Lucy, who had, all the time she was speaking, observed a profound silence, mixed with a most eager attention.

Here, pursued she, carry it to the person who brought it; and bid him tell his master, that, lest I should find any thing in it which may offend me, I have chosen not to read it: and, if he is wise, he will profit by my concern for him, and take care how he hazards displeasing me a second time by an importunity of this kind, which I shall not so easily pardon him.

Lucy, who had taken particular notice of this speech, in order to remember every word of it, when she repeated it again, went conning her lesson to the place where she had desired the servant to wait her coming: but he was gone; such being indeed his master's orders; for he was apprehensive that, following the custom of the ladies in romances, Arabella would return his letter; and therefore, to deprive her of an opportunity of sending it back that night, he ordered his man to say, he waited for an answer; but, as soon as he conveniently could, to come away without one.

Lucy, in a great surprise at the servant's going away, returned to her lady with the letter in her hand, telling her she must needs read it now, since the person who brought it was gone.

It must be confessed, said Arabella, taking the letter from her, with a smile, he has fallen upon an ingenious device to make me keep it for this night; and since, haply, I may be mistaken in the contents, I have a mind to open it.

Lucy did not fail to confirm her lady in this design: and Arabella, making as if she yielded to the importunities of her confidante, opened the letter; which she found as follows:

"THE UNFORTUNATE AND DESPAIRING BELLMOUR, TO THE DIVINE ARABELLA.

"MADAM,

Since it is, doubtless, not only with your permission, but even by your commands, that your uncle, Sir Charles Glanville, comes to pronounce the sentence of my death, in the denunciation of your anger, I submit, madam, without repining at the rigour of that doom you have inflicted on me. Yes, madam, this criminal, who has dared to adore you with the most sublime and perfect passion that ever was, acknowledges the justice of his punishment; and, since it is impossible to cease loving you, or to live without telling you he does so, he is going voluntarily to run upon that death your severity makes him wish for, and the greatness of his crime demands. Let my death then, O divine Arabella, expiate the offence I have been guilty of! And let me hope those fair eyes, that have beheld me with scorn when alive, will not refuse to shed some tears upon my tomb! And that, when you remember my crime of loving you, you will also be pleased to remember that I died for that crime; and wish for no other comfort in death, but the hope of your not hating, when he is no more, the unhappy

"BELLMOUR."

Arabella, who had read this letter aloud, sighed gently at the conclusion of it; but poor Lucy, who was greatly affected at so dolorous an epistle, could not restrain her tears; but sobbed so often, and with so much violence, as at length recalled her lady from the reverie into which she was plunged.

What ails you? said she to her confidante, greatly surprised. What is the cause of this unseemly sorrow?

Oh, madam! cried Lucy, her sobs making a frequent and unpleasing interruption in her words; I shall break my heart to be sure. Never was such a sad mournful letter in the world: I could cry my eyes out for the poor gentleman. Pray excuse me, madam; but, indeed, I can't help saying you are the most hard-heartedest lady I ever knew in my born days. Why, to be sure, you don't care if an hundred fine gentlemen should die for you, though their spirits were to haunt you every night! Well! I would not have what your ladyship has to answer for, for all the world!