friend; but Lady Fade is a woman, whose veracity has never been suspected.
Har. Is it from Lady Fade? Give it me. (Snatching the letter.)
Roy. It is Agnes's hand, is it not?
Har. It is, at least, a good imitation of it.
Roy. Head the contents, pray!
Har. Madam, what I have said to the prejudice of your ladyship's character to your relation, Mr. Worthy, I am heartily sorry for; and I am ready to beg pardon on my knees if you desire it; to acknowledge before Mr. Worthy himself, that it is a falsehood, or make any other reparation, in a private way, that you may desire. Let me, then, conjure your ladyship not to expose me, and I shall ever remain your most penitent and grateful A. Withrington.
Roy. The lady would not be so easily pacified, though; for she blackened her character, in order to make her best friend upon earth quarrel with her; so she gave me the letter to shew to her uncle. Is it forged, think you?
Har. It is possible!—I will venture to say—Nay, I am sure it is.
Roy. If it is, there is one circumstance which may help to discover the author, it is directed by a different hand on the back. Look at it.
Har. (In great perturbation.) Is it? (Turns hastily the folds of the letter, but his hand trembles so much, he can't find the back.)
Col. My dear Harwood! this is the back of
