Caddy Jellyby passed her very last holidays with us and was a dearer creature than ever, perpetually dancing in and out of the house with the children as if she had never given a dancing-lesson in her life.  Caddy keeps her own little carriage now instead of hiring one, and lives full two miles further westward than Newman Street.  She works very hard, her husband (an excellent one) being lame and able to do very little.  Still, she is more than contented and does all she has to do with all her heart.  Mr. Jellyby spends his evenings at her new house with his head against the wall as he used to do in her old one.  I have heard that Mrs. Jellyby was understood to suffer great mortification from her daughter’s ignoble marriage and pursuits, but I hope she got over it in time.  She has been disappointed in Borrioboola-Gha, which turned out a failure in consequence of the king of Borrioboola wanting to sell everybody—­who survived the climate—­for rum, but she has taken up with the rights of women to sit in Parliament, and Caddy tells me it is a mission involving more correspondence than the old one.  I had almost forgotten Caddy’s poor little girl.  She is not such a mite now, but she is deaf and dumb.  I believe there never was a better mother than Caddy, who learns, in her scanty intervals of leisure, innumerable deaf and dumb arts to soften the affliction of her child.

As if I were never to have done with Caddy, I am reminded here of Peepy and old Mr. Turveydrop.  Peepy is in the Custom House, and doing extremely well.  Old Mr. Turveydrop, very apoplectic, still exhibits his deportment about town, still enjoys himself in the old manner, is still believed in in the old way.  He is constant in his patronage of Peepy and is understood to have bequeathed him a favourite French clock in his dressing-room—­which is not his property.

With the first money we saved at home, we added to our pretty house by throwing out a little growlery expressly for my guardian, which we inaugurated with great splendour the next time he came down to see us.  I try to write all this lightly, because my heart is full in drawing to an end, but when I write of him, my tears will have their way.

I never look at him but I hear our poor dear Richard calling him a good man.  To Ada and her pretty boy, he is the fondest father; to me he is what he has ever been, and what name can I give to that?  He is my husband’s best and dearest friend, he is our children’s darling, he is the object of our deepest love and veneration.  Yet while I feel towards him as if he were a superior being, I am so familiar with him and so easy with him that I almost wonder at myself.  I have never lost my old names, nor has he lost his; nor do I ever, when he is with us, sit in any other place than in my old chair at his side, Dame Trot, Dame Durden, Little Woman—­all just the same as ever; and I answer, “Yes, dear guardian!” just the same.

I have never known the wind to be in the east for a single moment since the day when he took me to the porch to read the name.  I remarked to him once that the wind seemed never in the east now, and he said, no, truly; it had finally departed from that quarter on that very day.