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“Yours, with all the tenderness of friendship that is founded on mutual sympathy, congenial souls, and innate evidence of worth. JULIA.”

“P.S. I should like to know whether Antonio has any scars in his face, and what battles he was in. Only think, my dear, poor Charles Weston was frightened by a clap of thunder–but Charles has an excellent heart.”

This letter was written and read, sealed and kissed, when Miss Emmerson tapped gently at the door of her niece and begged admission. Julia flew to open it, and received her aunt with the guileless pleasure her presence ever gave her. A few words of introductory matter were exchanged, when, being both seated at their needles again, Miss Emmerson asked–

“To whom have you been writing, my love?”

“To my Anna.”

“Do you recollect, my child, that in writing to Miss Miller, you are writing to one out of your own family, and whose interests are different from yours?”

“I do not understand you, aunt,” cried Julia in surprise.

“I mean that you should be guarded in your correspondence–tell no secrets out”–

“Tell no secrets to my Anna!” exclaimed the niece in a species of horror. “That would be a death-blow to our friendship indeed.”

“Then let it die,” said Miss Emmerson, coolly; “the affection that cannot survive the loss of such an excitement, had better be suffered to expire as soon as possible, or it may raise false expectations.”

“Why, dear aunt, in destroying confidence of this nature, you destroy the great object of friendship. Who ever beard of a friendship without secrets?”

“I never had a secret in my life,” said Miss Emmerson simply, “and yet I have had many a friend.”

“Well,” said Julia, “yours must have been queer friends; pray, dear aunt, name one or two of them.”

“Your mother was my friend,” said Miss Emmerson, with strong emotion, “and I hope her daughter also is one.”

“Me, my beloved aunt!” cried Julia, throwing herself into the arms of Miss Emmerson and bursting into tears; “I am more than a friend, I am your child– your daughter.”

“Whatever be the name you give it, Julia, you are very near and dear to me,” said the aunt, tenderly kissing her charge: “but tell me, my love, did you ever feel such emotion in your intercourse with Miss Miller?”

It was some time before Julia could reply; when, having suppressed the burst of her feelings, she answered with a smile–

“Oh! that question is not fair. You have brought me up; nursed me in sickness; are kind and good to me; and the idea that you should suppose I did not love you, was dreadful–But you know I do.”

“I firmly believe so, my child; it is you that I would have know what it is that you love: I am satisfied for myself. I repeat, did Anna Miller ever excite such emotions?”

“Certainly not: my love to you is natural; but my friendship for Anna rests on sympathy, and a perfect knowledge of her character.”

“I am glad, however, that you know her so well, since you are so intimate. What testimony have you of all this excellence?”

“Innate evidence. I see it–I feel it–Yes, that is the best testimony–I feel her good qualities. Yes, my friendship for Anna forms the spring of my existence; while any accident or evil to you would afflict me the same as if done to myself–this is pure nature, you know.”

“I know it is pleasing to learn it, come from what it will,” said the aunt, smiling, and rising to withdraw.

CHAPTER III.

SEVERAL days passed after this conversation, in the ordinary quiet of a well regulated family. Notwithstanding the house of Miss Emmerson stood in the midst of the numberless villas that adorn Manhattan Island, the habits of its mistress were retiring and domestic. Julia was not of an age to mingle much in society, and Anna had furnished her with a theme for her meditations, that rather rendered her averse from the confusion of company. Her mind was constantly employed in canvassing the qualities of the unseen Antonio. Her friend had furnished her with a catalogue of his perfections in gross, which her active thoughts were busily arranging into form and substance. But little practised in the world or its disappoinments {sic}, the visionary girl had already figured to herself a person to suit these qualities, and the animal was no less pleasing, than the moral being of her fancy. What principally delighted Julia in these contemplations on the acquaintance of Anna, was the strong inclination he had expressed to know herself. This flattered her tendency to believe in the strength of mutual sympathy, and the efficacy of innate evidence of merit. In the midst of this pleasing employment of her fancy, she received a second letter from her friend, in answer to the one we have already given to our readers; it was couched in the following words: