childhood? When left an orphan by my own mother, your bosom was open to
receive me. _There_ was the helpless babe cherished, and there was it
taught all that virtue which it has since endeavoured to preserve
unimpaired in every trial.

You must not cast me off. You must not hate me. You must not call me
ungrateful and a wretch. Not to have merited these names is all that
enables me to endure your displeasure. As long as that belief consoles me,
my heart will not break.

Yet that, even that, will not much avail me. The distress that I now
feel, that I have felt ever since the receipt of your letter, cannot be
increased.

You forbid me to write to you; but I cannot forbear as long as there is
hope of extorting from you the cause of your aversion to my friend. I
solicit not this disclosure with a view or even in the hope of repelling
your objections. I want, I had almost said, I _want_ to share your
antipathies. I want only to be justified in obeying you. When known, they
will, perhaps, be found sufficient. I conjure you once more, tell me your
objections to this marriage.

As well as I can, I have examined myself. Passion may influence me, but
I am unconscious of its influence. I think I act with no exclusive regard
to my own pleasure, but as it flows from and is dependent on the happiness
of others.

If I am mistaken in my notions of duty, God forbid that I should shut
my ears against good counsel. Instead of loathing or shunning it, I am
anxious to hear it. I know my own short-sighted folly, my slight