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Her voice sunk with the word, but presently reviving she added, "I am thankful to find that I can look with so little pain on the spot!--shall we ever talk on that subject, Elinor?"--hesitatingly it was said--"Or will it be wrong?--I can talk of it now, I hope, as I ought to do"-Elinor tenderly invited her to be open

"As for regret," said Marianne, "I have done with that, as far as HE is concerned I do not s have been for him, but what they are NOW--At present, if I could be satisfied on one point, if I could be allowed to think that he was not ALWAYS acting a part, not ALWAYS deceiving me;--but above all, if I could be assured that he never was so VERY wicked as my fears have soirl"-She stopt Elinor joyfully treasured her words as she answered, "If you could be assured of that, you think you should be easy"

"Yes My peace of mind is doubly involved in it;--for not only is it horrible to suspect a person, who has been what HE has been to ME, of such designs,--but what must it make me appear to myself?--What in a situation like uarded affection could expose me to"-"How then," asked her sister, "would you account for his behaviour?"

"I would suppose hiladly would I suppose him, only fickle, very, very fickle"

Elinor said no ibility of beginning her story directly, or postponing it till Marianne were in stronger health;--and they crept on for a few ood," said Marianne at last with a sigh, "when I wish his secret reflections h in them"

"Do you compare your conduct with his?"

"No I coht to have been; I compare it with yours"

"Our situations have borne little resemblance"

"They have borne more than our conduct--Do not, my dearest Elinor, let your kindness defend what I know your judgivenbefore I was enough recovered to talk, I was perfectly able to reflect I considered the past: I saw inof our acquaintance with hi but a series of imprudence towards myself, and want of kindness to others I saw that s, and that rave My illness, I well knew, had been entirely brought on by ence ofHad I died,--it would have been self-destruction I did not know s as these reflections gave erness of my desire to live, to have time for atonement to my God, and to you all, did not kill me at once Had I died,-- in what peculiar misery should I have left you, my nurse, my friend, my sister!--You, who had seen all the fretful selfishness of s of my heart!--How should I have lived in YOUR remembrance!--My mother too! How could you have consoled her!--I cannot express my own abhorrence of myself Whenever I looked towards the past, I saw soed Every body see kindness of Mrs Jennings, I had repaid with ungrateful contempt To the Middletons, to the Palmers, the Steeles, to every common acquaintance even, I had been insolent and unjust; with a heart hardened against their merits, and a temper irritated by their very attention--To John, to Fanny,--yes, even to theiven less than their due But you,--you above all, above ed by me I, and only I, knew your heart and its sorrows; yet to what did it influence me?--not to any compassion that could benefit you or myself--Your example was before me; but to what avail?--Was I more considerate of you and your comfort?