at least polluted and debased,--for this man, poor alike in fortune,
character, and honour, can you any longer profess affection or
esteem?"

"Never, never, never!" cried I, springing from the bed, and throwing
myself upon my mother's neck. "Never: I am your own Flora once more.
I will never suffer any one again to make me forget you," and then I
sobbed so violently that Mamma was frightened, and bade me lie down
and left me to sleep. Several hours have passed since then, and I
could not sleep nor think, and I would not cry, for he is no longer
worthy of my tears; so I have written to you.

Oh, how I despise and hate myself for having so utterly, in my vanity
and folly, forgotten my mother, that dear, kind, constant friend, who
never cost me a single tear, but for my own ingratitude! Think,
Eleanor, what an affront to me,--to me, who, he so often said, had
made all other women worthless in his eyes. Do I hate him? No, I
cannot hate. Do I despise? No, I will not despise, but I will forget
him, and keep my contempt and hatred for myself.

God bless you! I am worn out. Write soon, or rather come, if
possible, to your affectionate but unworthy friend, F. A.

Good Heavens! Eleanor, he is wounded. He has fought with Lord
Borodaile. I have just heard it; Jermyn told me. Can it, can it be
true? What,--what have I said against him? Hate? forget? No, no: I
never loved him till now.

LETTER III.