It is so good of you to write such nice letters, and the longer they
are the better I like them. Whatever you put in them, I like them to
be full. I know I can't write nice letters myself, and it makes me
unhappy. Unless I have got something special to say, I am dumb.

But now I have something special to say. In spite of all that you
tell me about Cecilia, I do not think it would do for us to venture
upon marrying yet. I know that you are willing to sacrifice
everything, but I ought not on that account to accept a sacrifice. I
could not bear to see you poor and uncomfortable; and we should be
very poor in London now-a-days with such an income as we should
have. If we were going to live here at Stratton, perhaps we might
manage; but I feel sure that it would be imprudent in London. You
ought not to be angry with me for saying this, for I am quite as
anxious to be with you as you can possibly be to be with me; only, I
can bear to look forward, and have a pleasure in feeling that all my
happiness is to come. I know I am right in this. Do write me one
little line to say that you are not angry with your little girl.

I shall be quite ready for you by the 29th. I got such a dear little
note from Fanny the other day. She says that you never write to
them, and she supposes that I have the advantage of all your energy
in that way. I have told her that I do get a good deal. My brother
writes to me very seldom, I know; and I get twenty letters from
Cecilia for one scrap that Theodore ever sends me. Perhaps some of
these days I shall be the chief correspondent with the rectory.
Fanny told me all about the dresses, and I have my own quite ready.
I've been bridesmaid to four of my own sisters, so I ought to know
what I'm about. I'll never be bridesmaid to anybody again, after
Fanny; but whom on earth shall I have for myself? I think we must