Deterville to Miss St. Clare.

I have your letter now by me, my dear Maria: I know not how to give way to the delusive hopes you would have me entertain: is it possible my Zilia can love again? and can that passion be renewed in favour of Deterville? Transporting thought! Ah! let me not deceive myself; it is not the first time I have been betrayed by hope. Be watchful, my good friend; in your hands is my destiny: let me not proceed too far, till I have a certainty what that destiny is.

I have seen the lovely sister of Lord Bruton; nor have I seen a lady in whose favour, at first sight, I have been more prepossessed; but Zilia knows I have not a heart to give; and indeed if I had, I have reason to think hers is occupied by another. I do not wonder at her brother's attachment to her; the charms of her person alone, are such as must give pleasure to the partial eye of so near a relation: she is tall, and elegantly formed, with an air of true dignity, without that assured confidence, which is so often mistaken for it: her features are not perfectly regular, but there is that sweetness and sensibility, diffused over her countenance, that delights every one, and makes her have as many admirers as she has beholders; but the qualities of her mind are such as make her truly valuable to her friends: she has a superior understanding, joined with a diffidence, which, I believe, no French woman ever possessed, and indeed is rarely to be met with in any country. However, I must say, that English women have more of it in their general character, than I have found elsewhere. She has a frankness in her manners, which shews the unsuspecting simplicity of her heart: it would be the height of cruelty ever to impose on such a mind; so totally free from guile, that she seems not to suppose it exists in any breast. Her gratitude to her worthy brother, raises her affection almost to adoration.