gratification of a private individual, how great soever the merit of the object.
The Count walked into the garden, his arms folded, his mind distressed, unknowing what he should, what he ought to do. Turning into a small alcove, he beheld Matilda, her head reclining on one hand, whilst with the other she dried the tears which fell on her face: they both started; she rose from her seat; he advanced, prevented her going and seated himself by her. Both were silent for a moment, at length Matilda, making a second effort to rise, exclaimed in a faint voice, "Bless me! I dare say I have made the family wait breakfast," and attempted to pass him. "Stay, Miss Weimar, I beseech you; tell me why I behold you a prey to sorrow and grief?" "Because, Sir, (said she, withdrawing her hand) I am the child of sorrow; I never knew another parent; poor, forlorn, proscribed, and dependant, I never can belong to any one." She snatched her hand, which
