But, then, why should he smile so kindly upon you? Why should
he take such a poor girl as you by the hand, as your letter says he has
done twice? Why should he stoop to read your letter to us; and commend
your writing and spelling? And why should he give you leave to read his
mother's books?--Indeed, indeed, my dearest child, our hearts ache for
you; and then you seem so full of joy at his goodness, so taken with his
kind expressions, (which, truly, are very great favours, if he means
well) that we fear--yes, my dear child, we fear--you should be too
grateful,--and reward him with that jewel, your virtue, which no riches,
nor favour, nor any thing in this life, can make up to you.
I, too, have written a long letter, but will say one thing more; and that
is, that, in the midst of our poverty and misfortunes, we have trusted in
God's goodness, and been honest, and doubt not to be happy hereafter, if
we continue to be good, though our lot is hard here; but the loss of our
dear child's virtue would be a grief that we could not bear, and would
bring our grey hairs to the grave at once.
If, then, you love us, if you wish for God's blessing, and your own
future happiness, we both charge you to stand upon your guard: and, if
you find the least attempt made upon your virtue, be sure you leave every
thing behind you, and come away to us; for we had rather see you all
covered with rags, and even follow you to the churchyard, than have it
said, a child of ours preferred any worldly conveniences to her virtue.
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