The
Lord bless and prosper my dear daughter, as I must then call you, and not
niece, if you have any kindness for him. And if as how you have, it
would be wonderfully gracious if you would but give half a hint of it to
my nephew, or if so be you will not to him, to me, your father you know,
under your own precious hand. The Lord be good unto me! But I shall
never see the she that will strike my fancy, as you have done. But what
a dreadful thing would it be, if you, who are so much courted and admired
by many fine gallants, should at last be taken with a man who could not
be yours! God forbid that such a disastrous thing should happen! I
profess to you, madam, that a tear or two have strayed down my cheeks at
the thoughts of it. For why? Because you played no tricks with any man:
you never were a coquette, as they call them. You dealt plainly,
sincerely, and tenderly too, to all men; of which my nephew and I can
bear witness.
Well, but what now is the end of my writing?--Lord love you, cannot,
cannot you at last give comfort to two honest hearts? Honester you never
knew! And yet, if you could, I dare say you would. Well, then, and if
you can't, we must sit down as contented as we can; that's all we have
for it.--But, poor young man! Look at him, if you read this before him.
Strangely altered! Poor young man!--And if as how you cannot, why then,
God bless my daughter; that's all.
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