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"You are in tears, Amelia!"—These were his words—and spoken with that expression.—Oh it summoned up a thousand dear remembrances—scenes of past delight—as in my days of happiness—my golden spring of love—Hark!—'tis the nightingale! O such was thy song, sweet bird, in those blest days—so bloom'd the flowers—and then I lay enraptured on his neck.—Sure, if the spirits of the dead hover around the living, this stranger is the angel of my Charles.—O false and faithless heart! and dost thou seek thus artfully to veil thy perfidy?—No, no—begone for ever from this breast, the weak, the impious wish.—Here, in this heart, where Charles lies buried, shall never human being fill his place.—And yet this stranger, this unknown—'tis wonderful my thoughts should dwell thus strong, thus constantly upon him—as 'twere my Charles's picture—his features seem to melt into the very image—of my only love!