Feeling the disappointment more severely than she was willing to
believe, she flew to Rousseau, as her only refuge from the idea of him,
who might prove a friend, could she but find a way to interest him in
her fate; still the personification of Saint Preux, or of an ideal lover
far superior, was after this imperfect model, of which merely a glance
had been caught, even to the minutiae of the coat and hat of the
stranger. But if she lent St. Preux, or the demi-god of her fancy,
his form, she richly repaid him by the donation of all St. Preux's
sentiments and feelings, culled to gratify her own, to which he
seemed to have an undoubted right, when she read on the margin of an
impassioned letter, written in the well-known hand--"Rousseau alone, the
true Prometheus of sentiment, possessed the fire of genius necessary to
pourtray the passion, the truth of which goes so directly to the heart."

Maria was again true to the hour, yet had finished Rousseau, and begun
to transcribe some selected passages; unable to quit either the author
or the window, before she had a glimpse of the countenance she daily
longed to see; and, when seen, it conveyed no distinct idea to her
mind where she had seen it before. He must have been a transient
acquaintance; but to discover an acquaintance was fortunate, could she
contrive to attract his attention, and excite his sympathy.

Every glance afforded colouring for the picture she was delineating on
her heart; and once, when the window was half open, the sound of his
voice reached her. Conviction flashed on her; she had certainly, in
a moment of distress, heard the same accents. They were manly, and
characteristic of a noble mind; nay, even sweet--or sweet they seemed to
her attentive ear.

She started back, trembling, alarmed at the emotion a strange