glad to hear that my
starlings chatter so pleasantly; at all events the refrain is not that of
Sterne's. They can get out; and do get out; and shall get out as much as
they please. I am no gaoler, and shut up nobody but myself. I have always
thought that young people have too little liberty. My principle has been
to make little free men and women of them from the first. In morals,
altogether--in intellect, more than we allow--_self_-education is that
which abides; and _it_ only begins where constraint ends. Such is my
theory. My practice is consistent. Let them remain for a week longer, as
you say. The horses shall be at Elverston on Tuesday, the 7th. I shall be
more than usually sad and solitary till their return; so pray, I selfishly
entreat, do not extend their absence. You will smile, remembering how
little my health will allow me to see of them, even when at home; but as
Chaulieu so prettily says--I stupidly forget the words, but the sentiment
is this--"although concealed by a sylvan wall of leaves, impenetrable--(he
is pursuing his favourite nymphs through the alleys and intricacies of a
rustic labyrinth)--yet, your songs, your prattle, and your laughter, faint
and far away, inspire my fancy; and, through my ears, I see your unseen
smiles, your blushes, your floating tresses, and your ivory feet; and so,
though sad, am happy; though alone, in company;"--and such is my case.

'One only request, and I have done. Pray remind them of a promise made to
me. The Book of Life--the fountain of life--it must be drunk of, night and
morning, or their spiritual life expires.

'And now, Heaven bless and keep you, my dear cousin; and with all
assurances of affection to my beloved niece and my child, believe me ever
yours affectionately.

'SILAS RUTHYN.'

Said Cousin Monica, with a waggish smile--

'And so, girls, you have Chaulieu and the evangelists; the French rhymester
in his alley, and Silas in the valley of the shadow of death; perfect
liberty, and a peremptory order to return in a week;--all illustrating one
another. Poor Silas! old as he is, I don't think his religion fits him.'

_I_ really rather liked his letter. I was struggling hard to think well of
him, and Cousin Monica knew it; and I really think if I had not been by,
she would often have been less severe on him.

As we were all sitting pleasantly about the breakfast table a day or two
after, the sun shining on the pleasant wintry landscape, Cousin Monica
su