Would you believe it, my dear Henrietta, I cannot write to Lord Ossory? I have twenty times begun a very short letter, without being able to finish it. Every thing which I would wish not to say, offers itself readily to my mind; Reproaches flow spontaneously from my pen: I study to seem indifferent, and my sensibility breaks out in spite of me: no expression, either of coldness or moderation, pleases me: My heart, carried away by a rapid emotion, pants to explain itself without disguise. I must wait a little.

I shall never be able to write this answer: I write, I erase; After all, why do I torment myself? Is it necessary I should write to him? Perhaps it is, for he may interpret my silence a consent to see him – If he should come hither – So near as he may be – He has no estate in this country – Is it chance, or the desire to find me which brings him? Do not my dear, ridicule my anxiety; do not say, I love him – Alas! how is it possible I can still love him? It is not love which thus takes up all my thoughts – It is – I know not what it is; but I am most unhappy. I am retiring to bed; but without hope of finding rest. Pity your tenderest friend, pity her, without examining too deeply into the cause of her sorrows: we have often agreed in pronouncing it cruelty, to refuse compassion to those miseries, which may to us appear light and trifling: it is not the species of suffering, but the sensibility of the sufferer, which ought to excite our pity: Alas! I am then very worthy of yours.