with a trunkful of fancy work, pious books, and innocent sources of
amusement,--a fairy godmother to old ladies, pauper children, and
bazaars. My vanity has run its course, and I shall gladly yield the
place of honour to this worthy soul. May she stay long!

That is absolutely all the news I have for you, and, indeed, it is
more than you deserve; for you are about as lazy as you are sweet,
which is saying a good deal. If I don't get a letter to-morrow, I
shall be on the brink of despair. At the approach of post time, I am
nearly ill with anticipation, and afterwards fall headlong into
deepest melancholy.

Your ill-used
EMILIA.




LETTER XII.


GRAYSMILL, October 10th.

Sweet, your letter of Thursday comforted me wondrous much; but I
have something to tell you, and my impatience will not even let me
dwell on the joy it was to read words of yours again. Well;
yesterday was a dull day, the sky was covered all the morning, and
at dinner-time it began to rain. I sat in my room in the afternoon
and read "Richard Feverel" until, looking up from my book, I saw
that the rain had ceased. The wind had risen, and, in the west, a