ABSTRACT
I HASTENED without delay to the manor-house, where I found Sir Sidney, in the library, writing, and alone. I felt that the moment when the crisis of my fate approached, was not to be lost in trifling ceremonies, or employed in useless conversation. My cousin’s peace of mind was equally interested with my own. Isabella’s hopes, her felicity, her affections, were at stake, and I resolved on being explicit. Sir Sidney rose as I approached him: ‘Walsingham,’ said he, with a mixture of reproof and sorrow, ‘why do you persecute me? am I not suffi ciently unhappy?’
