a long time, much worse than any one can bear, and I begin to think it
will never be fine again. This is a _finesse_ of mine, for I have
often observed that if one writes about the weather, it is generally
completely changed before the letter is read. I wish it may prove so
now, and that when Mr. W. Digweed reaches Steventon to-morrow, he may
find you have had a long series of hot dry weather. We are a small
party at present, only grandmamma, Mary Jane, and myself. Yalden's
coach cleared off the rest yesterday. I am glad you recollected to
mention your being come home. {161a} My heart began to sink within me
when I had got so far through your letter without its being mentioned.
I was dreadfully afraid that you might be detained at Winchester by
severe illness, confined to your bed perhaps, and quite unable to hold
a pen, and only dating from Steventon in order, with a mistaken sort
of tenderness, to deceive me. But now I have no doubt of your being
at home. I am sure you would not say it so seriously unless it
actually were so. We saw a countless number of post-chaises full of
boys pass by yesterday morning {161b}--full of future heroes,
legislators, fools, and villains. You have never thanked me for my
last letter, which went by the cheese. I cannot bear not to be
thanked. You will not pay us a visit yet of course; we must not think
of it. Your mother must get well first, and you must go to Oxford and
_not_ be elected; after that a little change of scene may be good for
you, and your physicians I hope will order you to the sea, or to a
house by the side of a very considerable pond. {161c} Oh! it rains
again. It beats against the window. Mary Jane and I have been wet
through once already to-day; we set off in the donkey-carriage for
Farringdon, as I wanted to see the improvement Mr. Woolls is making,
but we were obliged to turn back before we got there, but not soon
enough to avoid a pelter all the way home. We met Mr. Woolls. I
talked of its being bad weather for the hay, and he returned me the