Do you know, Mr. Fowler, said I, the contents of the letter you have put
into my hand?
No farther than that my uncle told me, it contained professions of
fatherly love; and with wishes only--But without so much as expressing
his hopes.
Sir Rowland is a good man, said I: I have not read above half his letter.
There seems to be too much of the father in it, for me to read further,
before my brother. God bless my brother Fowler, and reward the fatherly
love of Sir Rowland to his daughter Byron! I must write to him.
Mr. Fowler, poor man! profoundly sighed; bowed; with such a look of
respectful acquiescence--Bless me, my dear, how am I to be distressed on
all sides! by good men too; as Sir Charles could say by good women.
Is there nothing less than giving myself to either, that I can do to shew
Mr. Orme and Mr. Fowler my true value for them?
Poor Mr. Fowler!--Indeed he looks to be, as Sir Rowland hints, not well.
--Such a modest, such a humble, such a silent lover!--He cost me tears at
parting: I could not hide them. He heaped praises and blessings upon me,
and hurried away at last, to hide his emotion, with a sentence
unfinished.--God preserve you, dear and worthy sir! was all I could try
to say. The last words stuck in my throat, till he was out of hearing;
and then I prayed for blessings upon him and his uncle: and repeated
them, with fresh tears, on reading the rest of the affecting letter.
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