Your friendship, my dear Aunt Ruxton, has, I am sure, considerably
alleviated the anguish of mind my father has had to feel, and your
letter and well-deserved praise of my dear mother's fortitude and
exertion were a real pleasure to her. She has indeed had a great deal to
bear, and I think her health has suffered, but I hope not materially. In
my father's absence, she ordered everything, did everything, felt
everything herself. Unless, my dear aunt, you had been present during
the last week of dear Honora's sufferings, I think you could not form an
idea of anything so terrible or so touching. Such extreme fortitude,
such affection, such attention to the smallest feelings of others, as
she showed on her deathbed!

My father has carefully kept his mind occupied ever since his return,
but we cannot help seeing his feelings at intervals. He has not slept
for two or three nights, and is, I think, far from well to-day.

He said the other day, speaking of Honora, "My dear daughters, I promise
you one thing, I never will reproach any of you with Honora. I will
never reproach you with any of her virtues." There could not be a kinder
or more generous promise, but I could not help fearing that my father
should refrain from speaking of her too much, and that it would hurt his
mind. He used to say it was a great relief to him to talk of my mother
Honora.

* * * * *

In the summer of 1791 Mr. and Mrs. Edgeworth went to England, leaving
Maria in sole charge of the large family at home. She used to amuse her
young sisters at this time by stories, which she would write on a slate
during the leisure moments her many occupations permitted, and which she