After some time, (for I would not interrupt the pause,) she
addressed me thus:--

"This girl seems to be very anxious to be with you." "As much as I am that she should be so." My friend's countenance
betrayed some perplexity. As soon as I perceived it, I said, "Why are
you thus grave?" Some little confusion appeared, as if she would not
have her gravity discovered. "There again," said I, "new tokens in your
face, my good mamma, of something which you will not mention. Yet, sooth
to say, this is not your first perplexity. I have noticed it before, and
wondered. It happens only when my _Bess_ is introduced. Something in
relation to her it must be, but what I cannot imagine. Why does _her_
name, particularly, make you thoughtful, disturbed, dejected? There
now--but I must know the reason. You don't agree with me in my notions
of this girl, I fear, and you will not disclose your thoughts." By this time, she had gained her usual composure, and, without noticing
my comments on her looks, said, "Since you are both of one mind, why
does she not leave the country?" "That cannot be, I believe. Mrs. Stevens says it would be disreputable. I am no proficient in etiquette, and must, therefore, in affairs of this
kind, be guided by those who are. But would to heaven I were truly her
father or brother! Then all difficulties would be done away." "Can you seriously wish that?" "Why, no. I believe it would be more rational to wish that the world
would suffer me to act the fatherly or brotherly part, without the
relationship." "And is that the only part you wish to act towards this girl?" "Certainly, the only part." "You surprise me. Have you not confessed your love for her?" "I _do_ love her. There is nothing upon earth more dear to me than my
_Bess_." "But love is of different kinds. She was loved by her father----"

"Less than by me. He was a good man, but not of lively feelings. Besides, he had another daughter, and they shared his love between them;
but she has no sister to share _my_ love. Calamity, too, has endeared
her to me; I am all her consolation, dependence, and hope, and nothing,
surely, can induce me to abandon her." "Her reliance upon you for happiness," replied my friend, with a sigh,
"is plain enough." "It is; but why that sigh? And yet I understand it. It remonstrates with
me on my incapacity for her support. I know it well, but it is wrong to
be cast down. I have youth, health, and spirits, and ought not to
despair of living for my own benefit and hers; but you sigh again, and
it is impossible to keep my courage when _you_ sigh. Do tell me what you
mean by it." "You partly guessed the cause. She trusts to you for happiness, but I
somewhat suspect she trusts in vain." "In vain! I beseech you, tell me why you think so." "You say you love her: why then not make her your wife?" "My wife! Surely her extreme youth, and my destitute condition, will
account for that." "She is fifteen; the age of delicate fervour, of inartificial love, and
suitable enough for marriage. As to your condition, you may live more
easily together than apart. She has no false taste or perverse desires
to gratify. She has been trained in simple modes and habits. Besides,
that objection can be removed another way. But are these all your
objections?" "Her youth I object to, merely in connection with her mind. She is too
little improved to be my wife. She wants that solidity of mind, that
maturity of intelligence which ten years more may possibly give her, but
which she cannot have at this age." "You are a very prudential youth: then you are willing to wait ten years
for a wife?" "Does that follow? Because my Bess will not be qualified for wedlock in
less time, does it follow that I must wait for her?" "I spoke on the supposition that you loved her." "And that is true; but love is satisfied with studying her happiness as
her father or brother. Some years hence, perhaps in half a year, (for
this passion, called wedded or _marriage-wishing_ love, is of sudden
growth,) my mind may change and nothing may content me but to have Bess
for my wife. Yet I do not expect it." "Then you are determined against marriage with this girl?" "Of course; until that love comes which I feel not now; but which, no
doubt, will come, when Bess has had the benefit of five or eight years
more, unless previously excited by another." "All this is strange, Arthur. I have heretofore supposed that you
actually loved (I mean with the _marriage-seeking_ passion) your
_Bess_." "I believe I once did; but it happened at a time when marriage was
improper; in the life of her father and sister, and when I had never
known in what female excellence consisted. Since that time my happier
lot has cast me among women so far above Eliza Hadwin,--so far above,
and so widely different from any thing which time is likely to make
her,--that, I own, nothing appears more unlikely than that I shall ever
love her." "Are you not a little capricious in that respect, my good friend? You
have praised your _Bess_ as rich in natural endowments; as having an
artless purity and rectitude of mind, which somewhat supersedes the use
of formal education; as being full of sweetness and tenderness, and in
her person a very angel of loveliness." "All that is true. I never saw features and shape so delicately
beautiful; I never knew so young a mind so quick-sighted and so firm;
but, nevertheless, she is not the creature whom I would call my _wife_. My bosom-slave; counsellor; friend; the mother; the pattern; the
tutoress of my children, must be a different creature." "But what are the attributes of this _desirable_ which Bess wants?" "Every thing she wants. Age, capacity, acquirements, person, features,
hair, complexion, all, all are different from this girl's." "And pray of what kind may they be?" "I cannot portray them in words--but yes, I can:--The creature whom I
shall worship:--it sounds oddly, but, I verily believe, the sentiment
which I shall feel for my wife will be more akin to worship than any
thing else. I shall never love but such a creature as I now image to
myself, and _such_ a creature will deserve, or almost deserve, worship. But this creature, I was going to say, must be the exact counterpart, my
good mamma--of _yourself_." This was said very earnestly, and with eyes and manner that fully
expressed my earnestness; perhaps my expressions were unwittingly strong
and emphatic, for she started and blushed, but the cause of her
discomposure, whatever it was, was quickly removed, and she said,--

"Poor Bess! This will be sad news to thee!" "Heaven forbid!" said I; "of what moment can my opinions be to her?" "Strange questioner that thou art. Thou knowest that her gentle heart is
touched with love. See how it shows itself in the tender and inimitable
strain of this epistle. Does not this sweet ingenuousness bewitch you?"