ABSTRACT
I write with pleasure, my dear friend, because I am convinced you will receive infinite, by the contents of this letter. Zilia indeed loves; her own lips have confessed it. For some time after the conversation, of which I sent you an account, she avoided being alone with me. This behaviour grieved me, and I reproached myself, with having said any thing which gave occasion for it: the making an apology was aukward, and I knew not well how to begin it; but she spared me the trouble: for one evening, asking me to walk with her in the grove, where you, and all our little party of friends, have been so often pleased with each other, some reflections on those past times, opened the conversation, which she began.
