powering in your enthusiasm. You will infect But good night, my love. Do not sit up late. God bless you. (Embraces her, and exit.)

me.

GERTRUDE alone.

GER. Oh, my own dear mother. I trust you will indeed be infected. (Covers her face with her hands, and prays. After a short time some one enters the room softly, she starts and turns round.)

Enter EDWARD.

GER. Edward! What is the matter? To what wonderful event am I indebted for a visit from you at this hour?

EDW. You speak gaily, Gertrude, but you have been in tears. What has vexed you? GER. Oh, nothing of any consequence. EDW. Is it really so, now, Gertrude?

GER. Really. Upon my word. I would rather that what has happened to make me shed tears had happened than not. Now, answer my question, What has brought you here? I think you seem unusually grave.

EDW. I want to have a conversation with you, Gertrude, and have been watching till my mother and Anna should depart to their midnight revels. Now, just guess where I have been this evening?

GER. I guess! Impossible, but I shall try.

You have been losing money at play, and are now in low spirits.

EDW. No, Gertrude, you are quite wrong.

GER. You look so grave and quiet, that perhaps you have been at your guardian's receiving a lecture.

EDW. I have been receiving a lecture, but not from my guardian.

GER. And from whom else did you condescend to listen to a lecture?

EDW. From Mr. Percy, your beloved Rev.. Mr. Percy, who has lectured me till I am convinced I am the greatest fool on earth.

GER. Mr. Percy! What do you mean, my dearest Edward? Has Mr. Percy really had the goodness to; but it is impossible. You never could meet- Do, dear Edward, tell

EDW. Well, then, let us draw near the fire, for I have much to say to you, Gertrude.

GER. Begin, dear Edward.

EDW. Well, then, Gertrude, however careless and foolish, or worse, you may have thought me, I have not been insensible to the change that has taken place in you during the last year. You know how Ashton annoyed me last winter, by constantly attempting to draw me into religious conversation. You will recollect, that, though his arguments had no effect upon me, I could not answer them. The truth was, my own con

science told me that what he said was true; but I knew that his conduct had been more criminal than mine had ever been, and I thought it natural enough that he should feel uneasy, and wish to reform; but I confess I despised him for being driven, as I thought, by fear, to make himself ridiculous. When you, Gertrude, began to agree with him, and to join in what he said respecting the natural alienation of the heart from God and true religion, I for a time could scarcely believe you sincere. Your life appeared to me perfectly innocent; and I thought, had mine been as much so, I should have felt nothing but peace. At that time I carefully avoided Ashton; but, though you perhaps did not perceive it, I listened with much interest while you argued with my mother about your new opinions, and often was very much surprised with what you said respecting sin and conscience. I well knew the meaning of what you said, but I wondered what you could have done, that led you to speak so truly and feelingly of the dreadful gloom of a guilty conscience. I had often experienced that dread of God, which you described as that which makes a sinner feel his need of a mediator between him and that awful Being, the very thought of whom, when we are conscious of having disobeyed Him, can so appal us. In listening to you, however, Gertrude, I soon perceived that it was indistinct ideas of right and wrong which had led me to

consider your life so innocent; and I fully agreed with you when you tried to prove, that it was not innocent to live in neglect of those plain commandments recorded in that book, which, at the same time, we professed to believe was a revelation from heaven. I had no inclination, however, to take that book for my guide. I supposed, if I did so, that I must begin by giving up almost every thing from which I derived any pleasure. I attempted, therefore, to stifle my convictions of what was truth, and to banish every good thought which arose in my mind, by folly, and what you would call sin. I have, however, at times been so very wretched, that, though you will perhaps scarcely believe me when I tell you so, I have resolved to reform, and have even attempted to give up some of those things, in the indulgence of which I felt myself most criminal.

GER. I do believe you, my dear Edward. I believe implicitly whatever you tell me.

EDW. But it was only two days ago, Gertrude, that you so kindly and gently warned me against indulging the increasing violence of my temper; so how can you believe in my attempts at improvement?

GER. And it was only two days ago, that you, Edward, surprised me, by your candid avowal that your temper was a source of misery to your

self; and that you had no power to do, what in your soul you thought right, and wished to do. EDW. Did I say so to you,

Gertrude?

GER. You did not exactly say so to me, but you were walking about the room, and did say so, with much vehemence and feeling.

Edw. Well, I have at times of late been so very miserable, that I may have unconsciously exposed my feelings where I should have been more anxious not to do so. I may tell you, Gertrude, that I have for some time dreaded my hours of solitude and reflection, while I despised myself for the weakness and cowardice which prevented my abandoning what, in those hours, appeared to me utterly unworthy of pursuit. I have loathed, at such times of reflection, those very scenes into which I could not perhaps resist entering the next day. I have been disgusted with the worthlessness of those very associates, who still have so much power over me, that I must fly from them if I am to escape from their vices. But I must go on with my story. I think Mr. Percy has shown me in what I erred. I supposed I must myself do that which he says God alone can do. I have thought of praying to God, but supposed, hitherto, that before I presumed to approach Him, I must give up all that He disapproved of. I have thought also of going to church with you, but though I saw that many of my most dissipated companions accom