ottage yesterday, and found her very low,
poor old soul, about her son. She has had a bad attack again, and
I am afraid her heart is not right. She will not live long if she
has much to make her anxious, and how is that to be avoided? For
her son's courting is all going wrong, she can see, though he
will not tell her anything about it; but he gets more moody and
restless, she says, and don't take a pride in anything, not even
in his flowers or his allotment; and he takes to going about,
more and more every day, with these men, who will be sure to lead
him into trouble.

"After I left her, I walked up to the Hawk's Lynch, to see
whether the view and the air would not do me good. And it did do
me a great deal of good, dear, and I thought of you, and when I
should see your bright face and hear your happy laugh again. The
village looked so pretty and peaceful. I could hardly believe,
while I was up there, that there were all these miserable
quarrels and heartburnings going on in it. I suppose they go on
everywhere, but one can't help feeling as if there was something
specially hard in those which come under one's own eyes, and
touch one's self. And then they are so frivolous, and everything
might go on so comfortably if people would only be reasonable. I
ought to have been a man, I am sure, and then I might, perhaps,
be able to do more, and should have more influence. If poor papa
were only well and strong!

"But, dear, I shall tire you with all these long histories and
complainings. I have run on till I have no room left for anything
else; but you can't think what a comfort it is to me to write it
all to you, for I have no one to tell it to. I feel so much
better, and more cheerful, since I sat down to write this. You
must give my dear love to uncle and aunt, and let me hear from
you again whenever you have time. If you could come over again
and stay for a few days, it would be very kind; but I must not
press it, as there is nothing to attract you here, only we might
talk over all that we did and saw at Oxford.--Ever, dearest Mary,
your affectionate cousin,

"Katie"

"P. S.--I should like to have the pattern of the jacket you wore
the last day at Oxford. Could you cut it out in thin paper and
send it in your next?"

"July-,184-.

"MY DEAR BROWN,--I was very glad to see your hand, and to hear
such flourishing accounts of your vacation doings. You won't get
any like announcement of me, for cricket has not yet co