world you will know also that there are varieties of misery which assail the human frame,—and 'tis our own feelings that constitute great part of our distress."
Matilda sighed, and after a little pause, "That I may not appear impatient, nor grieved at trifles, I will unbosom myself to you, and perhaps from you obtain that consolation, I have hitherto sought in vain."
She then related every part of her story, except the name of the Countess and situation of the Castle.
Her gentle friend sympathized with her, and confessed, for so young a woman, her trials were very great. "But still, my dear lady, (said she) I bid you hope; you have a Father and Protector, trust in him, and you will one day assuredly be happy. Another time you shall know my sad story, and will then confess, of the two, I have been most wretched; and, though I cannot entirely exclude a painful remembrance some times, yet I am now comparatively happy,—my troubles no longer exist, and religion has restored peace to my mind. Adieu, my dear child,—take hope to your bosom and compose your spirits." "Yes, (cried Matilda) I will at least try to conquer one cause of my distress, and in destroying this fatal letter of Mrs. Courtney's, lose all remembrance of the Count: surely after having so solemnly renounced him, I have no right either to complain of him or grieve for myself,—'tis an unpardonable folly, for every way he is dead to me. She threw the letter into the fire and walked into the garden.
In the evening she received another visit from her good mother, who was much pleased to see her so tranquil. Matilda reminded her of her promise to relate her history.
"My story, my dear child, is not a long one, but replete with many melancholy circumstances. My father was a merchant at Dunkirk; he married a very amiable woman, and had a numerous family—five
