firmly believe; but few, very few are the bosoms that are capable of feeling it."
"Now I agree with you perfectly. I thought you could not mean all you before asserted.'"
"Excuse me, Emma, I did mean what I said. But I did not then speak of real love; I spoke only of the passion, or rather fancy, that usurps its name. Real, pure, undefiled love is that absorbing affection that prefers another's happiness to its own; that devotion that would sink unknown to the grave, to procure another's happiness; that seeks not its own gratification, but would sacrifice all the world can give, to promote the welfare of another; that can taste of no pleasure and partake of no delight, unless it be participated by the beloved object, and even then, joys in his satisfaction more than in its own. This is what I call love. I can imagine such a passion, though I shall never feel it. However, that it may be felt I am firmly convinced; though even you must acknowledge, it is rare to find it.
"Alas! my dear mistress!" said Emma, sighing heavily. "Every word you utter, con-
