attentively, and assured her, that she did not. 

 “Do not provoke me,” said her aunt; “you do know it, confess the truth immediately. I insist upon your confessing the truth instantly.” 

 Emily was silent, and turned to leave the room, but Madame called her back. “O you are guilty, then,” said she, “you do know the hand.” “If you were before in doubt of this, madam,” replied Emily calmly, “why did you accuse me of having told a falsehood.” Madame Cheron did not blush; but her niece did, a moment after, when she heard the name of Valancourt. It was not, however, with the consciousness of deserving reproof, for, if she ever had seen his hand-writing, the present characters did not bring it to her recollection. 

 “It is useless to deny it,” said Madame Cheron, “I see in your countenance, that you are no stranger to this letter; and, I dare say, you have received many such from this impertinent young man, without my knowledge, in my own house.” 

 Emily, shocked at the indelicacy of this accusation, still more than by the vulgarity of the former, instantly forgot the pride, that had imposed silence, and endeavoured to vindicate herself from the aspersion, but Madame Cheron was not to be convinced. 

 “I cannot suppose,” she resumed, “that this young man would have taken the liberty of writing to me, if you had not encouraged him to do so, and I must now” 

 “You will allow me to remind you, madam,” said Emily timidly, “of some particulars of a conversation we had at La Vallée. I then told you truly, that I had only not forbade Monsieur Valancourt from addressing my family.” 

 “I will not be interrupted,” said Madame Cheron, interrupting her niece, “I was going to say—I—I—have forgot what I was going to say. But how happened it that you did not forbid him?” Emily was silent. “How happened it that you encouraged him to trouble me with this letter?—A young man that nobody knows;—an utter stranger in the place,—a young adventurer, no doubt, who is looking out for a good fortune. However, on that point he has mistaken his aim.” 

 “His family was known to my father,” said Emily modestly, and without appearing to be sensible of the last sentence. 

 “O! that is no recommendation at all,” replied her aunt, with her usual readiness upon this topic; “he took such strange fancies to people! He was always judging persons by their 

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