But again, impatiency, founded perhaps on self-partiality, that strange misleader! prevails.

Let me briefly say, that it is necessary to my present and future hopes that you keep well with my family.  And moreover, should you come, I may be traced out by that means by the most abandoned of men.  Say not then that you think you ought to come up to me, let it be taken as it will:—­ For my sake, let me repeat, (were my foster-brother recovered, as I hope he is,) you must not come.  Nor can I want your advice, while I can write, and you can answer me.  And write I will as often as I stand in need of your counsel.

Then the people I am now with seem to be both honest and humane:  and there is in the same house a widow-lodger, of low fortunes, but of great merit:—­almost such another serious and good woman as the dear one to whom I am now writing; who has, as she says, given over all other thoughts of the world but such as should assist her to leave it happily.  —­How suitable to my own views!—­There seems to be a comfortable providence in this at least—­so that at present there is nothing of exigence; nothing that can require, or even excuse, your coming, when so many better ends may be answered by your staying where you are.  A time may come, when I shall want your last and best assistance:  and then, my dear Mrs. Norton—­and then, I will speak it, and embrace it with all my whole heart—­and then, will it not be denied me by any body.

You are very obliging in your offer of money.  But although I was forced to leave my clothes behind me, yet I took several things of value with me, which will keep me from present want.  You’ll say, I have made a miserable hand of it—­so indeed I have—­and, to look backwards, in a very little while too.

But what shall I do, if my father cannot be prevailed upon to recall his malediction?  O my dear Mrs. Norton, what a weight must a father’s curse have upon a heart so appreciative as mine!—­Did I think I should ever have a father’s curse to deprecate?  And yet, only that the temporary part of it is so terribly fulfilled, or I should be as earnest for its recall, for my father’s sake, as for my own!

You must not be angry with me that I wrote not to you before.  You are very right and very kind to say you are sure I love you.  Indeed I do.  And what a generosity, [so like yourself!] is there in your praise, to attribute to me more than I merit, in order to raise an emulation to me to deserve your praises!—­you tell me what you expect from me in the calamities I am called upon to bear.  May I behave answerably!

I can a little account to myself for my silence to you, my kind, my dear maternal friend!  How equally sweetly and politely do you express yourself on this occasion!  I was very desirous, for your sake, as well as for my own, that you should have it to say that we did not correspond:  had they thought we did, every word you could have dropt in my favour would have been rejected; and my mother would have been forbid to see you, or pay any regard to what you should say.