nity of sentiment, a rectitude of heart;—how greatly superior to that wretch Fontelle, whose malicious stories have so much injured her reputation, and whose birth and fortune only render her the more despicable; as mine must be to me of no value, when considered as bars to happiness and Matilda."
He walked slowly to the house and met the Marquis. "Dear Count, (said he) what have you done or said to my amiable protegée; I met her running up stairs, out of breath, and tears trembling in her eyes?" The Count, without the least reserve, repeated the preceding conversation. "And did you really make such an offer, (cried he) and did she refuse it?" "'Tis very true," (replied the Count.) "Why then, (said the Marquis) you are two of the noblest creatures under heaven; that you, my worthy friend, should step beyond the prejudices of your country—that you should resolve to brave the censure, the malevolent whispers and contemptuous neglect of your equals, and support the insolent derision of your inferiors, in favor of a young woman under such peculiarly distressing circumstances, excites my wonder and admiration: but I scarce know any words that can do justice to my sentiments, when I reflect that this very young woman, without friends or fortune, from a sense of rectitude, and a loftiness of sentiment which would do honor to the highest rank, could peremptorily refuse a situation and prospects so brilliant—do violence to her own heart, and prefer a dependence her soul is much superior to, rather than incur self-reproach for your degradation. Indeed my lord, I know not any language sufficiently expressive of my feelings: you must admire her more than ever.
"Doubt not, (answered the Count, in a melancholy tone) of my more than admiration—my adoration; but alas! she is inflexible—she has sworn never to be mine—she has charged me to see her, to think of her, no more." "Do her justice, my lord, and obey her; prove your esteem for such an extraordinary
