_To Henry Colden_

Tuesday Morning, 11 o'clock.

I am glad I left not word how soon I meant to return, for here has
been, it seems, during my short absence, a pair of gossips. They have just
gone, lamenting the disappointment, and leaving me a world of
complimentary condolences.

I shall take care to prevent future interruption by shutting up the
house and retiring to my chamber, where I am resolved to remain till I
have fully disburdened my heart. Disburden it, said I? I shall load it, I
fear, with sadness, but I will not regret an undertaking which my duty to
you makes indispensable.

One of the earliest incidents that I remember is an expostulation with
my father. I saw several strange people enter the chamber where my mother
was. Somewhat suggested to my childish fancy that these strangers meant to
take her away, and that I should never see her again. My terror was
violent, and I thought of nothing but seizing her gown or hand, and
holding her back from the rude assailants. My father detained me in his
arms, and endeavoured to soothe my fears, but I would not be appeased. I
struggled and shrieked, and, hearing some movements in my mother's room,
that seemed to betoken the violence I so much dreaded, I leaped, with a
sudden effort, from my father's arms, but fainted before I reached the
door of the room.

This may serve as a specimen of the impetuosity of my temper. It was