ace this year. Now, I receive your little note
and write at once to say how sad _that_ makes me. It is the first time
that the expression of your love, my beloved friend, has made me sad,
and I start as from an omen. On the other hand, the character you write
in is so firm and like yourself, that I do hope and trust you are not
sensibly worse. Let me hear by a word, if possible, that the change of
weather has done you some little good. I understand there has scarcely
been any summer in England, and this must necessarily have been adverse
to you. A gleam of fine weather would revive you by God's help. Oh, that
I could look in your face and say, 'God bless you!' as I feel it. May
God bless you, my dear, dear friend.

Our reason for not going to England has not been from caprice, but a
cross in money matters. A ship was to have brought us in something, and
brought us in nothing instead, with a discount; the consequence of which
is that we are transfixed at Florence, and unable even to 'fly to the
mountains' as a refuge from the summer heat. It has been a great
disappointment to us all, and to our respective families, my poor
darling Arabel especially; but we can only be patient, and I take
comfort in the obvious fact that my Penini is quite well and almost as
rosy as ever in spite of the excessive Florence heat. One of the worst
thoughts I have is about _you_. I had longed so to see you this summer,
and had calculated with such certainty upon doing so. I would have gone
to England for that single reason if I could, but I can't; we can't
stir, really. That we should be able to sit quietly still at Florence
and eat our bread and maccaroni is the utmost of our possibilities this
summer.

Mrs. Trollope has gone to the Baths of Lucca, and thus I have not seen
her. She will be very interested about you, of course. How many hang
their hearts upon your sickbed, dearest Miss Mitford! Yes, and their
prayers too.

The other day, by an accident, an old number of the 'Athenaeum' fell into
my hands, and I read for the second time Mr. Chorley's criticism upon
'Atherton.' It is evidently written in a hurried manner, and is quite
inadequate as a notice of the book; but, do you know, I am of opinion
that if you considered it more closely you would lose your impression of
its being depreciatory and cold. He says that the _only fault_ of the
work is its _shortness_; a rare piece of praise to be given to a work
nowadays. You see, your reput