'Now, sir, what next ?' This question, though unspoken, was not long unanswered; after a few passing observations upon indifferent subjects, he began in solemn tones the following appeal to my humanity:-- 'It will be four years next April since I first saw you, Mrs.
Huntingdon--you may have forgotten the circumstance, but I never can.

I admired you then most deeply, but I dared not love you.

In the following autumn I saw so much of your perfections that I could not fail to love you, though I dared not show it.

For upwards of three years I have endured a perfect martyrdom.

From the anguish of suppressed emotions, intense and fruitless longings, silent sorrow, crushed hopes, and trampled affections, I have suffered more than I can tell, or you imagine--and you were the cause of it, and not altogether the innocent cause.