only asylum. Ever since I have had no other comfort, but that of weeping over this grave, which I hope will soon be my own.
“You see with what sincerity I open to you my inmost soul.— Henceforth I may weep in your presence without restraint— a relief my overburdened heart stands much in need of— I expect you will put the same confidenco in me, as that I have reposed in you.— Don’t imagine that I am imposed upon. I am certain that you are no moro a shepherd, than I am a shepherdess. You are young, perhaps in love; for if I guess aright, our misfortunes flow from the samo source. The similitude of our conditions will make us feel the more for each other. I look upon you as one whom heaven moved with my afflictions, has sent into this solitude to save me from despair. I look upon you as a sincere friend, capable of giving, if not satisfactory advice, at least a firm example of true resignation to the Divine will.”
Ah! madam, said Fonrose, overwhelmed with what he heard, whatever tender sensibility my heart is prone to feel, you are far from imagining with what deep concern the recital of your woes has affected me— the impression will remain as long as life. What! must I have a secret, nay, even a thought reserved from you— from you, who have a right, after what you have entrusted me with, to scrutinize my very soul? But as I told you before, and as my foreboding heart apprehended; such is the naturo of my woes, that I am doomed to conceal them in eternal silence. Be not offended; charming friend, at a silence which is my greatest torment. You are very unhappy: but I am more unhappy still. I’ll be your constant companion: I’ll endeavour to mitigate your sorrows, and help to ease you in an employment too laborious for your delicate frame. Let me be a partaker of your grief; and when I behold you weeping over the tomb, I shall mix my tears with yours. You never will have cause to repent having deposited your secret in an unfortunate heart, that feels all the value of its trust. I do repent it already, said Adelaide,
