I cannot but think hardly of their unforgiveness:  but there is no judging for others by one’s self.  Nevertheless I will add, that, if you had had as gentle spirits as mine, these evils had never happened either to them or to you.  I knew your virtue, and your love of virtue, from your very cradle; and I doubted not but that, with God’s grace, would always be your guard.  But you could never be driven; nor was there occasion to drive you—­so generous, so noble, so discreet.—­But how does my love of your amiable qualities increase my affliction; as these recollections must do your’s!

You are escaped, my dearest Miss—­happily, I hope—­that is to say, with your honour—­else, how great must be your distress!—­Yet, from your letter, I dread the worst.

I am very seldom at Harlowe-place.  The house is not the house it used to be, since you went from it.  Then they are so relentless!  And, as I cannot say harsh things of the beloved child of my heart, as well as bosom, they do not take it amiss that I stay away.

Your Hannah left her place ill some time ago! and, as she is still at her mother’s at St. Alban’s, I am afraid she continues ill.  If so, as you are among strangers, and I cannot encourage you at present to come into these parts, I shall think it my duty to attend you (let it be taken as it will) as soon as my Tommy’s indisposition will permit; which I hope will be soon.

I have a little money by me.  You say you are poor yourself.—­How grievous are those words from one entitled and accustomed to affluence!—­ Will you be so good to command it, my beloved young lady?—­It is most of it your own bounty to me.  And I should take a pride to restore it to its original owner.

Your Poor bless you, and pray for you continually.  I have so managed your last benevolence, and they have been so healthy, and have had such constant employ, that it has held out; and will hold out till the happier times return, which I continually pray for.

Let me beg of you, my dearest young lady, to take to yourself all those aids which good persons, like you, draw from religion, in support of their calamities.  Let your sufferings be what they will, I am sure you have been innocent in your intention.  So do not despond.  None are made to suffer above what they can, and therefore ought to bear.

We know not the methods of Providence, nor what wise ends it may have to serve in its seemingly-severe dispensations to its poor creatures.

Few persons have greater reason to say this than myself.  And since we are apt in calamities to draw more comfort from example than precept, you will permit me to remind you of my own lot:  For who has had a greater share of afflictions than myself?