“I have not been very long in this family; and I fancy myself in that described in the ‘Spectator,’” the letter of October 22 continues.  “The good people here look upon their children with a fondness that more than recompenses their care of them.  I don’t perceive much distinction in regard to their merits; and when they speak sense or nonsense, it affects the parents with almost the same pleasure.  My friendship for the mother, and kindness for Miss Biddy, make me endure the squalling of Miss Nanny and Miss Mary with abundance of patience:  and my foretelling the future conquests of the eldest daughter, makes me very well with the family.—­I don’t know whether you will presently find out that this seeming impertinent account is the tenderest expressions of my love to you; but it furnishes my imagination with agreeable pictures of our future life; and I flatter myself with the hopes of one day enjoying with you the same satisfactions; and that, after as many years together, I may see you retain the same fondness for me as I shall certainly mine for you, and the noise of a nursery may have more charms for us than the music of an opera.

[Torn] “as these are the sure effect of my sincere love, since ’tis the nature of that passion to entertain the mind with pleasures in prospect; and I check myself when I grieve for your absence, by remembering how much reason I have to rejoice in the hope of passing my whole life with you.  A good fortune not to be valued!—­I am afraid of telling you that I return thanks for it to Heaven, because you will charge me with hypocrisy; but you are mistaken:  I assist every day at public prayers in this family, and never forget in my private ejaculation how much I owe to Heaven for making me yours.  ’Tis candle-light, or I should not conclude so soon.

“Pray, my dear, begin at the top, and read till you come to the bottom.”

Montagu, for his part, was somewhat careless as regards correspondence—­for which offence she rebuked him more than once, but in the most flattering manner.

“I am at present in so much uneasiness, my letter is not likely to be intelligible, if it all resembles the confusion of my head.  I sometimes imagine you not well, and sometimes that you think of it small importance to write, or that greater matters have taken up your thoughts.  This last imagination is too cruel for me.  I will rather fancy your letter has miscarried, though I find little probability to think so.  I know not what to think, and am very near being distracted, amongst my variety of dismal apprehensions.  I am very ill company to the good people of the house, who all bid me make you their compliments.  Mr. White begins your health twice every day.  You don’t deserve all this if you can be so entirely forgetful of all this part of the world.  I am peevish with you by fits, and divide my time between anger and sorrow, which are equaly troublesome to me.  ’Tis the most cruel thing in the world, to think one has reason