they are going back to Prince's Buildings to the nice house we had last
winter; and Emmeline writes me word that the great red puddle which we
used to call the Red Sea, and which we were forced to wade through
before we could get to the Downs, will not this winter be so terrible,
for my father has made a footpath for his "host."


CLIFTON, _Dec. 13, '92._

(The day we received yours.)

The day of retribution is at hand, my dear aunt: the month of May will
soon come, and then, when we meet face to face, and voucher to voucher,
it shall be truly seen whose letter-writing account stands fullest and
fairest in the world. Till then, "we'll leave it all to your honour's
honour." But why does my dear aunt write, "I can have but little more
time to spend with my brother in my life," [Footnote: Mrs. Ruxton lived
thirty-nine years after this letter was written.] as if she was an old
woman of one hundred and ninety-nine and upwards? I remember, the day I
left Black Castle, you told me, if you recollect, that "you had one foot
in the grave;" and though I saw you standing before me in perfect
health, sound wind and limb, I had the weakness to feel frightened, and
never to think of examining where your feet really were. But in the
month of May we hope to find them safe in your shoes, and I hope that
the sun will then shine out, and that all the black clouds in the
political horizon will be dispersed, and that "freemen" will by that
time eat their puddings and hold their tongues. Anna and I stayed one
week with Mrs. Powys [Footnote: The most intimate friend of Mrs. Honora
Edgeworth.] at Bath, and were very thoroughly occupied all the time with
seeing and--I won't say with being seen; for though we were at three