ness--I will yet deliver my son from his hands. I
have devised another scheme that might be resorted to in such a case; and
if I could but obtain my brother's consent and assistance, I should not
doubt of its success. The old hall where he and I were born, and where
our mother died, is not now inhabited, nor yet quite sunk into decay, as
I believe. Now, if I could persuade him to have one or two rooms made
habitable, and to let them to me as a stranger, I might live there, with
my child, under an assumed name, and still support myself by my favourite
art. He should lend me the money to begin with, and I would pay him
back, and live in lowly independence and strict seclusion, for the house
stands in a lonely place, and the neighbourhood is thinly inhabited, and
he himself should negotiate the sale of my pictures for me. I have
arranged the whole plan in my head: and all I want is to persuade
Frederick to be of the same mind as myself. He is coming to see me soon,
and then I will make the proposal to him, having first enlightened him
upon my circumstances sufficiently to excuse the project.

Already, I believe, he knows much more of my situation than I have told
him. I can tell this by the air of tender sadness pervading his letters;
and by the fact of his so seldom mentioning my husband, and generally
evincing a kind of covert bitterness when he does refer to him; as well
as by the circumstance of his never coming to see me when Mr. Huntingdon
is at home. But he has never openly expressed any disapprobation of him
or sympathy for me; he has never asked any questions, or said anything to
invite my confidence. Had he done so, I should probably have had but few
concealments from him. Perhaps he feels hurt at my reserve. He is a
strange being; I wish we knew each other better. He used to spend a
month at Staningley every year, before I was married; but, since our
father's death, I have only seen him once, when he came for a few days
while Mr. Huntingdon was away. He shall stay many days this time, and
there shall be more candour and cordiality between us than ever there was
before, since our early childhood. My heart clings to him more than
ever; and my soul is sick of solitude.

April 16th.--He is come and gone. He would not stay above a fortnight.
The time passed quickly, but very, very happily, and it has done me good.
I must have a bad disposition, for my misfortunes have soured and
embittered me exceeding