HARTFORD.
All is now lost; lost indeed! She is gone! Yes, my dear friend, our
beloved Eliza is gone! Never more shall we behold this once amiable
companion, this once innocent and happy girl. She has forsaken, and, as
she says, bid an everlasting adieu to her home, her afflicted parent,
and her friends. But I will take up my melancholy story where I left it
in my last.
She went, as she told me she expected, into the garden, and met her
detestable paramour. In about an hour she returned, and went directly to
her chamber. At one o'clock I went up, and found her writing, and
weeping. I begged her to compose herself, and go down to dinner. No, she
said, she should not eat; and was not fit to appear before any body. I
remonstrated against her immoderate grief, represented the injury she
must sustain by the indulgence of it, and conjured her to suppress the
violence of its emotions.
She entreated me to excuse her to her mamma; said she was writing to
her, and found it a task too painful to be performed with any degree of
composure; that she was almost ready to sink under the weight of her
affliction; but hoped and prayed for support both in this and another
trying scene which awaited her. In compliance with her desire, I now
left her, and told her mamma that she was very busy writing, wished not
to be interrupted at present, but would take some refreshment an hour or
two hence.
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