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94 intelligence, are of paternal origin—she would understand and justify any confidence that might be placed in her. There is something singularly natural in her letters: gay, ignorant of reality, yet with a native quick perception, they are just what a clever, spoilt, self-witted girl, quite unacquainted with the world, would write. The inherent good feeling and sense of propriety soon show themselves, and it is a relief that the clandestine correspondence in which we find her engaged has so many extenuating circumstances; for in spite of moonlight, rope-ladders, and a chaise-and-four, the love affair, carried on in opposition and secrecy, will mostly end ill. Deception is always an evil, but in youth—youth, whose very faults should be open-hearted and impetuous, it lays the foundation of the worst possible faults of character. More over, unromantic as it may sound, the objections of the elder party are often more wisely founded than their juniors are tempted to admit, and life has no wretchedness equal to an ill-assorted marriage—it is the sepulchre of the heart, haunted by the ghosts of past affections, and hopes gone by for ever.

 

's story is that of many others where nature and fortune are at variance—the one