"Dear, dear Papa, and ever dear Mamma, and all my own Sisters dear--I am happy here; Lady D---- is so kind to me; and Lord D---- looks very kind too, though he has not spoken to me yet--but then you see he is always engaged; and the honourable young ladies--but I do not think they are quite so kind; and they are so pretty too, and so happy looking! Oh, I wish they would like me! If they would only speak to me now and then as they pass me on the stair; but they only stop and laugh to one another, and then they toss their heads; and I can hear them say something about 'upsetting,' and 'mamma's whim, and papa's absurdity.' I'm sure--I'm sure, my dear parents--(for, alas! I have none other, though I dream sometimes that I have, and I feel so happy and delighted, that I always awake crying)--but what was I going to say?--you know I never wrote any letters before, and you will excuse this I know--I could not, I am sure, speak of whim or absurdity in regard to you, my dear benefactors. But I will try never to mind it. Lady D---- is so very kind. I sometimes go out with the little dogs, Poodle and Clara; they are such dear pets, I could take them, and do often take them to my bosom. And then, the other day, when I was sitting playing with Clara and Poodle, beneath the elm tree, the gardener's son passed me, and--no he did not pass, that is to say not all at once--but he stopped, and asked me to take a flower, which he had pulled for me, which I did, and then he offered to show me through the hot houses, but I did not go. My dear mamma, do you think I should have gone? And then he left me; but yesterday a little boy gave me the following letter. And all that the letter contains is this--
"If you love me as I love thee, What a loving couple we shall be!"
Love him!--oh, no--no--no--I will never, never walk that way again--I will never, never speak to him more. I love you, my own dear papa, and mamma, and my sisters, and Lady D----, and the two little dear doggies; but I never could love Donald M'Naughton; not but that he is good-looking, too, and young, and respected in the family; but he never can be a father or mother to me you know, as you have been. Oh! do write me soon, soon--and tell me all about the garden, and the ash-tree, and the arbour, and the flowers, and old Neptune, your favourite, and everything. I remain, most affectionately, yours, PHEBE FORTUNE.
