strange countries you are in, and I should like
to see them too. We have a book of travels which tells us all
about South America, and I read it very often. I send you one
little primrose that I gathered to-day in my garden."

Again, nearly a year later.

"I do not know how people can like to live always in one
place, when there is so much that is beautiful to see in the
world. Aunt Barbara says that she would be content always to
live in Cornwall; and it is very kind of her to come to
London, for it is that I may have masters, she says; but I
cannot help being glad, for I was so tired of the rocks, and
the sea always the same. We arrived last week, and Aunt
Barbara says we shall stay the whole winter, and come back
every year, very likely. I like our house very much; it is in
Westminster, not far from the Abbey, where I went with you;
one side looks on to the street, that is rather dull; but the
other looks on to St. James's Park, where I go to walk with
Aunt Barbara. We went to the Abbey last Sunday; it reminded me
of the churches abroad, and the singing was so beautiful. In
Cornwall there was only a fiddle and a cracked flute, and
everybody sang out of tune; I did not like going to church
there at all. Please write to me soon, Monsieur Horace, and
tell me where you are, and what you are doing; I fancy it all
to myself--the big forests, and the rivers, and the flowers,
and everything."

Accompanying these would be Mrs. Treherne's reports:

"Madeleine improves every day, I think. She is much grown, and
resembles her mother more and more, though she will never be
so beautiful, to my mind; she has not, and never will have,
Magdalen's English air and complexion. She gets on well with
her London masters and classes, and has great advantages in
many ways over girls of her own age, especially in her
knowledge of foreign languages. I trust that by degrees the
memory of her disastrous past may fade away; we never speak of
it, and she is so constantly employed, and seems to take so
much interest in her occupation and studies, that I hope she
is ceasing to think of old days, and will grow up the quiet,
English girl I could wish to see Magdalen's daughter. Indeed
she is almost too quiet and wanting in the gaiety and
animation natural to girls of her age; but otherwise I have
not a fault to find with her. She is fond of reading, and gets
hold of every book of travels she can hear of, that will give
her any idea of the cou