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pass away? How fleetly that time passes in reality, which from the imagination passes never!

Ay, so it does.

Do you remember the evening when we danced together at Lady Milford's? And the morning when I met you on your sorrel mare, crossing the heath at full speed, with your locks scattered on the wind like the skirts of some drifted cloud? And that little party to the cottage too?

Yes, I remember it all very well.

Very well! I remember it too well. But I distress you, Miss Charville; for you guess what I would say, and my motives for remaining silent on a subject so closely connected with every idea I have formed to myself of happiness. I will not distress you: yet permit me to see you sometimes. Let me call myself your neighbour or your friend.—Ha! Mrs. Charville already!

I saw you at a distance. How good you are to come to us again! for I have been thinking