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 me in her embrace. A long—long kiss succeeded: it was the last. I descended into the valley, and Mimili retraced her steps up the hills covered with wood, which concealed her from my view, towards her native mountains. On an open spot I beheld her once more waving her white handkerchief, kissing her hand, and extending her arms towards the valley, in allusion to our meeting again.

Thus far the story of my happy friend, in which I have no farther share than the pleasure of relating it, and vexation at not having to relate it of myself. Mimili has sent him her portrait; and since I have seen it, I forgive him for the neglect of all his old acquaintance since his return from Switzerland, and for being able to think and talk of nothing but his Mimili.

The letters with which she gratifies him every week are always very long; some passages, which he has read me as a mark of especial favour, confirm what he had previously told me of her childlike simplicity, her excellent understanding, her delicate sensibility, and her literary and scientific attainments, to which, between ourselves, I was rather loath to give credit. Thus what he said, for example, concerning her botanical knowledge, and her acquaintance with the ancient classics, seemed to me to be gra-