She says she is always very sorry when she has displeased mamma; but fear is to her unknown—­we two certainly are complete opposites.  I think Ellen’s character resembles mine much more than my sister’s does.  But you will like to know how my time of probation is thus shortened.  For I should have kept my resolution and waited the six months, pain as it was, but one day about a week ago, mamma chanced to enter our study at the very instant that the poor man who so politely believed Mademoiselle Emmeline was too ill to appreciate his lessons was praising me up to the skies for my progress; that same day Signor Rozzi had informed mamma, with all the enthusiasm of his nation, that he was delighted to teach a young lady who took such pleasure in the study of poetry, and so capable of appreciating the beauties of the Italian poets.  “In truth, madam,” he said, “she should be a poet herself, and the Temple of the Muses graced with her presence.”  There’s for you, Mary!  But jokes apart, I do love Italian; it is, it must be the natural language of poetry; the sentiments are so exquisitely lovely, the language, the words, as if framed to receive them—­music dwells in every line.  Petrarch, Tasso, Dante, all are open to me now, and I luxuriate even in the anticipation of the last,—­but how I am digressing.  That night mamma followed me to my room, as I retired to bed, and smiling, almost laughing, at the half terror of my countenance expressed, for I fancied she had come to reprove the wild spirits I had indulged in throughout the day, she said, “Is not this little head half turned with the flattery it has received to-day?”

“No,” I instantly replied.  “It is only the approbation of one or two that can put me in any danger of such a misfortune.”

“Indeed,” she answered, again smiling; “I fancied it was the fine speeches you had been hearing to-day that had excited such high spirits, but I am glad it is not; otherwise, I might have hesitated to express what I came here to do—­my approbation of my Emmeline’s conduct the last few months.”

I felt my colour rising to my very temples, dear Mary, for I did not expect this, but I endeavoured to conceal all I felt by seizing her hand, and imploring her, in a serio-comic, semi-tragic tone, not to praise me, for she and papa were the two whose praises would have the effect on me she feared.

“But you must endeavour to keep your head steady now,” she continued, “because papa sends a packet to Oakwood next week, and a long letter for Mary from my Emmeline must accompany it; her patience, I think, must be very nearly exhausted, and I know if you once begin to write, a frank will not contain all you will have to say, will it?” she added, with an arch but such a dear smile.