My dear, _dear_ mother, now that I have told you all the sorrows, trials and follies of the past month, I will turn to other and far more pleasing themes. My dear little Pauline was almost wild with joy to see papa and mamma at home again. I found her looking very chubby and rosy, having gained in strength since the cool weather.
This season is perfectly charming. It is called the Indian summer. I can give you no just description of the gorgeousness of the forest trees with which we are surrounded. As I was riding through a thick grove yesterday, on my way to Waverley, I could almost imagine myself in fairy land. The air was mild and balmy as in June, and there was a freshness and dryness in the atmosphere which was perfectly exhilarating.
I think I remarked to you near the commencement of my journal, that Mrs. Munroe, the wife of our clergyman, was absent from town. She returned while we were away. I called there yesterday, in company with Emily and Pauline. Mrs. Munroe is rather above the medium height, with a very intelligent, not handsome, countenance; and a splendid set of teeth. She impressed me as a very superior lady; there is a dignity, a quiet repose in her manner which I admire.
After conversing a few moments, I expressed a wish to see her infant; when she immediately went out and brought it to the parlor, accompanied by a sister who is visiting her. I don't think Pauline ever saw a baby before, and she looked at the little creature with a serious, thoughtful expression, frequently sighing from the intensity of her feelings. We all joined in a laugh at her expense. But when the baby began to cry, poor Pauline started, and grew very red. I didn't like to have her feel so, and I took the infant into my lap, and put its little soft hand in hers. When she had felt the velvety flesh, and came to the conclusion that it was really alive, she was pleased enough; and had to make a great effort to keep from crying that I did not bring it home with me.
I made early inquiries on my return as to the present situation of Squire Lee's family; and was happy to learn that in many respects Lucy's situation is far more comfortable than formerly. Her father still continues feeble in body and mind, but he has grown so dependent on his daughter, and is so pleased with her tender care, that he can hardly bear her out of his sight. She reads newspapers to him, combs his hair, and soothes him by the hour together. She hopes soon to interest him in the Bible, by reading daily, delightful selections from it. I fear the poor old gentleman has not enough sense to understand, as he often falls asleep in his chair, lulled by the sound of her sweet voice.