n of
thousands!--And will!--For her father will be a faithful steward for
her.--But it must be in his own way, and at his own time.

And is she really ill?--so very ill?--But she ought to sorrow--she has
given a double measure of it.

But does she really believe she shall not long trouble us?--But, O my
Norton!--She must, she will, long trouble us--For can she think her
death, if we should be deprived of her, will put an end to our
afflictions?--Can it be thought that the fall of such a child will not
be regretted by us to the last hour of our lives?

But, in the letter you have, does she, without reserve, express her
contrition? Has she in it no reflecting hints? Does she not aim at
extenuations?--If I were to see it, will it not shock me so much, that
my apparent grief may expose me to harshnesses?--Can it be contrived--

But to what purpose?--Don't send it--I charge you don't--I dare not see
it--

Yet--

But alas!--

Oh! forgive the almost distracted mother! You can.--You know how to
allow for all this--so I will let it go.--I will not write over again
this part of my letter.

But I choose not to know more of her than is communicated to us all--
no more than I dare own I have seen--and what some of them may rather
communicate to me, than receive from me: and this for the sake of my
outward quiet: although my inward peace suffers more and more by the
compelled reserve.

***

I was forced to break off. But I will now try to conclude my long
letter.

I am sorry you are ill. But if you were well, I could not, for your own
sake, wish you to go up, as Betty tells us you long to do. If you went,
nothing would be minded that came from you. As they already think you
too partial in her favour, your going up would confirm it, and do
yourself prejudice, and her no good. And as every body values you here,
I advise you not to interest yourself too warmly in her favour,
especially before my Bella's Betty, till I can let you know a proper
time. Yet to forbid you to love the dear naughty creature, who can? O
my Norton! you must love her!--And so must I!

I send you five guineas, to help you in your present illness, and your
son's; for it must have lain heavy upon you. What a sad, sad thing, my
dear good woman, that all your pains, and all my pains, for eighteen or
nineteen years together, have, in so few months, been rendered thus
deplorably vain! Yet I must be always your friend, and pity you, for th