t;

Thus, I had been calm, almost happy, during my absence from Eliza; for nothing had occurred to make me discover what lay hidden in my heart but now the tumult of my feelings awakened my suspicions, and my agitated answer confirmed Maria's: "Eliza Goldsmith," I said, "leave her happy home for me! leave father, sisters, for me!" and I believe I said the last words in a way that would have shown a child my adoring affection; then I added, in an altered tone, "Eliza Goldsmith would never think of Edward Seaward, as you seem to wish, Maria."

I sighed deeply; Maria smiled: but she soon grew serious, and said, "You know, Edward, that Eliza is sincerity itself; indeed, she has not a feeling that she need be ashamed to own. From the hour that she became sensible to your decided preference for her, · your love, I will say, she never tried to hide her great affection for you." "Become sensible to my preference! love! Maria, I never thought,

-

my

never dared, - surely I never could have said any thing

"Never purposely, I dare say, Edward," replied Maria; "nor any thing that would be directly understood by other people; but Eliza could not remain blind to what we all saw. It was plain to every one of us, that when Eliza was present, you never missed any other creature; that you were even more proud of her approbation than of dear Mr. Goldsmith's; that you were always imagining how you could give her a pleasure. When she was sick, don't you remember how you watched every body's looks in the house, and how kind and

affectionate you were to her after her illness? It was not long after her recovery, just when you went to Virginia, that she told me she would die single, unless Heaven should bless her by making her your wife."

"Maria! my dearest Maria!" I said, and embraced her, not being able to complete what I wished to say. While I kept silent, for I was wholly overcome with the suddenness and sweetness of this surprise, my sister went on telling me several things, which were doubly grateful to my feelings, as giving me fresh proofs of Eliza's attachment, and of her superiority over all other women in that frankness which is only to be found in generous and noble characters.

At last I recovered my ordinary powers, and thanking my sister for the kindness of showing me where I might find a treasure beyond valuation, I said, "If it be really so, Maria, Edward Seaward is the happiest of happy men; but to ask Eliza Goldsmith to go with me to such a climate! to marry Eliza, and bury her amongst people that would not comprehend her; no! I cannot be so selfish. Did I not refuse to take you with me, my dear sister, because I love you? and ought I not to let the same motive prevail against my wish for such a dear companion as Eliza? I must not think of it; I will act as becomes the pupil of her excellent father."

"Well, well, this is all very fine," said my elder sister; "but I think, before you make rash resolutions, you had better come with us to the parsonage, and see how you feel about it in Eliza's company." This remark set us all on foot; and it being

now nearly sunset, we went forth to visit the dearest friends of our earliest years. How happy was my old master to see me, how rejoiced the girls! Eliza only was silent; but as I took her hand there was something in its tremor, and in her shaded eyes, that showed there was an anxious feeling at her heart, which prevented her from entirely sharing her sisters' joy, or from welcoming me with the cheerful kindness they did. They talked, she was silent; I was surprised, disappointed, bewildered; it was not the reception I had foolishly expected; yet I endeavoured to keep my spirits elate; but soon found I could not continue conversation; first I became silent, then serious, then depressed. I now found that although I had not been six hours in the village, the Goldsmiths already knew of my intended residence in America, and the subject was accordingly brought forward by them, and variously commented on. Each member of the family had a hope, a fear, or a solicitude to express. One sought to encourage me, another to dissuade me from accepting my uncle's offer. Eliza remained silent; I wished to know her opinion, but I had not the courage to say so. I suppose my looks asked for it; for at length she said —

"Edward, the providence of God is with you, whether in England or in the solitary desert; be not dissuaded from doing that which in your own mind you may think right."

There was a noble firmness in her voice as she said this, although her eyes had tears in them. On meeting those sweet eyes, I got up from the place where I was sitting, between my dear sister and

Miss Goldsmith, and, seating myself beside Eliza, took her hand, and, turning towards her, would have spoken, but could not; her hand trembled a little, yet she looked on me with a sweet and settled composure, which gradually shed a calm over my agitated feelings.

I cannot now repeat what we said to each other about my removal to a distant land, having no distinct remembrance of it, we were both so deeply moved; all I am sure of is, that I did not speak of love. Our hearts, indeed, were already united; and I think Eliza felt, as I did, that after this evening they never could be separated.

The tea called us round the table, over which we conversed on past times with great delight.

"Do you remember," said Eliza, "when you taught me through this window, how to know the moon to be in its increase or in its wane?”

"I do remember it, dear Eliza," I replied; "it was the young moon, a simple curved line, showing itself nearly where the sun had set; and I remember yes, I well remember, the words you then said to me, as we looked upon it; but I may not repeat them."—"O repeat them! repeat them!" every one exclaimed; "surely you cannot be ashamed - the of any thing Eliza said."— I looked at her, bright colour heightened on her cheeks, but she was not confused. "I will repeat them myself, Edward," said she, "as they must be told: I said, 'You are my sun, dear Edward, and I thy faithful moon, watching thee in the west."" "That was precisely it, my dear Eliza," I rejoined; "and may it be prophetic!" In these few ardent words, I had

avowed my attachment, and finished the cruel struggle between my desire of having her the consoling partner of my exile, and my unwillingness to take her from a peaceful home. She was silent for a moment or two; but her eyes spoke the while most eloquently; she turned them alternately from her father to me, and resting them at last on me, said in a very low yet still firm voice, "I have long believed in your love for me, Edward Seaward; now you assure me of it: to-morrow you leave Awbury; I cannot conceal what I feel at the possibility of another separation. My father! my sisters! you know his worth, you will not think hardly of your poor Eliza's delicacy, if now, before you all, I confess my deep affection. Edward, dear Edward, I should pine and die, were you to go alone to the dreadful country you are destined for: may it now be our fate to live or die together." Before she finished I drew near her, and, snatching her hand, pressed it to my lips; a hallowed tear, seen only by the eye of Him who looks into the heart, dropt on the hand: it was the seal of Edward's faith it was not unperceived. I kissed that dear hand again and again, with difficulty articulating a few words of devoted affection, and sat down by her, with a delightful consciousness that she was mine.

The feelings of all present were highly excited; tears flowed apace, or stood in the eye of each, and my dear sister Maria kissed us both, weeping tears of joy. Mr. Goldsmith sat the while without speaking, but with a serious gravity which somewhat awed me; yet his habitual kindness prevented his