hurried words, now seems to take a more tangible existence. A love-letter is a proof of how dearly, even in absence, you are remembered. I once heard a young friend regret her approaching marriage, because she would then receive no more charming notes. Alas! the charming notes are not the only charming things that are no more. But a love-letter!—how much of life's most perfect happiness do those two words contain! With what anxiety it is expected!—with what delight it is received!—it seems almost too great a pleasure to open it. Suddenly we mock ourselves for the charmed delay—the seal is hastily broken—the contents eagerly devoured; then it is read slowly, dwelling on every sentence to lengthen out its enjoyment; how sweet does every little word of endearment appear!—what importance is attached to the choice of an epithet, to the turn of a phrase! Through the whole day, with what a conscious thrill its possession is recalled!—with what care it is read over at night, till its contents mingle with our dreams! I often wonder, when I see people settled down in that cold calmness, too often the atmosphere around the domestic hearth, whether they ever recall the words they used to say, and the letters they used to write! Would those letters appear absurd and exaggerated, or would they for a moment bring back the old feeling, or, at all events, a tender regret for its departure?
Louisa was, however, at the first and happiest time; her engagement was of that most harassing kind, where,
